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COLLECTED VERSE 



This Edition limited to five hundred copies, 
of which this is No 



SELECTED POEMS 



OF 



CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS 

AUTHOR OF "SONGS FROM BERANGER," 

"TALES OF A GARRISON TOWN," 

"THE PROMISE," ETC. 



<* 



NEW YORK 

ASSOCIATED AUTHORS AND COMPILERS 

1916 



11/6 



Copyright, 1916, 
By Craven Langstroth Betts 

All rights reserved 



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1 

-8 1916 



rf)ClA438001 
Vl r I 



^ 



TO THE NOBILITY OF ART 
EVERYWHERE 



For permission to reprint various poems, the author 
acknowledges the courtesy of the Independent, The Out- 
look, Harper's Weekly, Puck and the New York Herald. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Perfume-Holder 3 

Major Poems 

Hymn to the Spirit of Beauty 39 

Astrophel 45 

Ode to Spring . 50 

" " Autumn . 55 

" " Winter . _ 58 

Diana and Endymion 68 

Deformed 72 

The Ever-growing Truth 77 

Eugenie on the Death of Her Son 82 

Resurgam . 86 

In the Gloaming 91 

Canadian Thanksgiving Hymn 94 

The Hollyhocks 96 

California 98 

To the Poets 101 

The Slumber 103 

One Kin Are We 104 

The Vision 106 

The Birthplace of Freedom 109 

The Golden-rod ill 

January ' . 113 

The Barren Fig-Tree 114 

Questions of Life 115 

To the Bumble-Bee '.. . 117 

The Poor Apple Woman 119 

Childless 120 

My Three Friends 122 

Thanksgiving Hymn 124 

A Withered Rose 126 

Betrayed 127 

The Votive Rose 128 

Society and Art 129 

Lines on a Picture ' 130 

"Just as High as My Heart" 131 

The Prisoner of Love 132 

In Memoriam 134 

Robert Browning 136 

To Sidney Lanier 138 

vii 



viii CONTENTS 

Major Poems — Continued page 

Marlowe 141 

Requiescat 142 

Lines on Oliver Wendell Holmes 145 

"Threescore and Ten" 147 

To Richard Henry Stoddard 149 

Songs and Lyrics 

Hey, Ho, Robin ! 153 

Written for a Canadian National Anthem .... 155 

Love Leading 157 

A Song of Summer 160 

Saint Christmas 162 

"The Springtime Lingereth Long, Love" 165 

Fairies' Song 167 

My Lassie with Your Eyes of Blue 170 

Fair as Ceres Bearing Guerdon 172 

A Song of the Dawn 174 

Sea Song 176 

Invocation to Love 176 

My Lady from the Sea 181 

My Sonneteer 183 

Song for the Empire State . 186 

A Song of Hope 187 

Cradle Song 188 

French Forms 

French Forms 192 

The Immortality of Song 193 

The Renascence of Spring 196 

The Coming Age 199 

The Advantage of Love 202 

Under Marlboro' 204 

Ballade of the Sea-Serpent 206 

Ballade of the Tailor 208 

The Servant of the Muse 210 

The Bogey of English Free Trade 212 

Beranger's Songs 214 

My Tricksy Muse 215 

A Rustic Scene 216 

A Perfect Friend 217 

The Heart's Voyage 218 

O Sovereign Love 221 

The Vision of the Dis Debar 222 

Triolets 223 

Quatrains 

The Quatrain 226 

The Universal Life 227 

Standing-Room 227 



CONTENTS ix 

Quatrains — Continued PAGE 

The World-Maelstrom of the West 227 

Knowledge and Wisdom '. 227 

Penuel 228 

Evolution 228 

Love 228 

On Certain Academicians 228 

Old and New Art 229 

To Certain Critics 229 

The Basic Force 229 

The Conventional Parson 229 

Midas and Company 230 

Cave Canem ! 230 

Pegasus at Pasture 230 

Orthodox Liberalism 230 

The Poets and Mammon 231 

Sonnets and Sonneteers 231 

The Shakespearean Sonnet 231 

Poets and Poetasters 231 

On the Spiritual Barnum 232 

Truth . 232 

To Some New Critics 232 

Fancy 232 

Self-Knowledge 233 

True and False Fame 233 

Beranger 233 

The Rule of Rapacity , 233 

The Profligate of Kindness 234 

Traits of Women . . . . . . . 234 

The Invincible Sex 234 

The Curse of the Coquette 234 

Artificial Refinement 235 

Woman's Heart 235 

Double Quatrains 

Life 235 

The Iliad 236 

The Press 236 

The Years of Life 237 

Human Existence 237 

Truth 238 

Shakespeare 238 

The Humble-Bee 239 

Hope and Despair 239 

Faith and Love 240 

Pleasure and Joy 240 

Ballads 

Canada to England 243 



x CONTENTS 

Ballads — Continued PAGE 

The Bonnet Blue 246 

Soldiers' Home 248 

Good Saint Valentine 252 

The Earl's Daughter 254 

The Old Sabre 257 

Lamond 261 

On the Frontier 267 

Devon and Drake 273 

Mary Jane 276 

Blind Milton 278 

Defence of the Long Saut 282 

Goring's Ride 291 

Lady Maud 293 

Sonnets 

Foreword 296 

Out of the Darkness (3 Sonnets) 297 

Britain and Her Colonies 299 

England and the Armada 299 

Belgium 300 

Japan 300 

Montenegro 301 

Switzerland 301 

Holland 302 

A Warning to the Kaiser 302 

The Lighted Liberty 303 

The Half-Century Reunion at Gettysburg ..... 303 

Evening at City Point, James River, 1890 .... 304 

Charlotte Corday 304 

Shakespeare . 305 

Lincoln 305 

Alfred and Charlemagne 306 

Cromwell 306 

Abdul Hamid, the "Shadow of God" 307 

Garibaldi 307 

Salvini 308 

Othello 308 

Irving 309 

Booth _ 309 

On Reading the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini . 310 

John Henry Boner 310 

The House of Lords 311 

Don Quixote 311 

To the Moon-Flower 312 

The Condor 312 

Honor and Fame 313 

Love and Truth 313 

"Wisdom and Knowledge 314 



CONTENTS xi 

Sonnets — Continued PAGE 

Peace 314 

Fortitude 315 

The Unseen World 315 

Humanitas . 316 

Personality 316 

Duty 317 

Science , 317 

The Tide of Time 318 

Death 318 

The Closing Walls 319 

Life's Voyage 319 

The Return 320 

Grand Manan 320 

The Water Lily (2 Sonnets) 321 

Spring Morning 322 

Summer Night in the Country 322 

The Bather 323 

Summer Noon 323 

To a Friend 324 

Love ' 324 

The Conjunction of Love 325 

The Security of Love 325 

The Fortitude of Love 326 

The Favor of Love 326 

The Quality of Love 327 

Devotion of Love 327 

Immortality of Love 328 

Constancy 328 

To 329 

To 329 

The Ideal 330 

The Ideal Found 330 

To Astrea (8 Sonnets) 331 

A Garland of Sonnets 

To Shakespeare 336 

Homer 337 

Chaucer 337 

Tasso 338 

Spenser 338 

Marlowe 339 

Shakespeare 339 

Milton 340 

Dryden 340 

Pope 341 

Burns 341 



Scott 



342 



Byron 342 



xii CONTENTS 

A Garland of Sonnets — Continued PAGE 

Keats 343 

Shelley 343 

Coleridge 344 

Wordsworth 344 

Hood 345 

Schiller 345 

Goethe 346 

Beranger 346 

Hugo 347 

Tennyson 347 

Browning 348 

Arnold 348 

Bayard Taylor 349 

Emerson 349 

Longfellow 350 

Lowell 350 

Whittier 351 

Whitman 351 

Morris 352 

Kipling 352 

Mistral^ 353 

L'Envoi 354 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 
A Persian Love Poem 



This poem is derived from a prose story, called "Selim, 
the Unsociable" by Arthur Kennedy and originally pub- 
lished in Temple Bar. 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

PROUD Naishapur, two hundred years ago, 
Inviolate from the galling Turkish foe, 
Like a warm opal dropped from Allah's hand, 
Lay glimmering on the green Khorassan land. 
Girdling the South, the desert's sandy coil 
Strangled the verdure and oppressed the soil; 
But East and North the languorous noon-day breeze 
Lifted the leaves of lime and tamarind trees 
Over the hills, within whose broken row 
The gleaming city watched the river flow. 
Along the camel track from Ispahan, 
Came tinklings of the nearing caravan, 
Trailing its parched, dust-cumbered passage down 
Into the market of the wealthy town. 
Piercing the vibrant ether, bold to view, 
A hundred minarets burned athwart the blue; 
The purple roofs of mosques, like sunset isles, 
Blazed all their panoply of porcelain tiles, 
While from the walls the names of Allah shone 
In many a scrolled and squared device of stone. 
Color and light loomed everywhere; their glow 
Burnished the booths and houses, row on row ; 
They flamed across the palace court-yard flags 
And blazoned even the cringing beggar's rags. 
The darkling ponds and fountains steely-cold 
The sun's keen alchemy changed to shimmering gold; 
And marble cupolas and awnings white 
Flashed forth all splendid with reflected light; 
While green pomegranate leaf and pregnant vine 

3 



4 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Gained prouder lustre from the teeming shine. 
All earth was bathed in palpitating heat; 
The sun-rays searched enclosure, lane, and street, 
And streamed along the cream-white painted walls 
Of gardens and the roofs of market stalls, 
Spreading one glare of yellow radiance down 
O'er hill and valley, desert, wood, and town. 

High noon in Naishapur! — the gay bazaars, 

Heaped with their wares wrought under half the stars, 

One ant-like, huge, conglomerate market made, 

Coursed with a hundred throbbing veins of trade. 

Yet the loud buzz of traffic even there 

Sinks at the high Muezzin's call to prayer, 

While so oppressive grows the blaze of day 

That even the water carriers shirk the way. 

A little longer swirls the busy bruit 

About the coffee stalls and booths of fruit; 

A moment longer does the merchant stop, 

Claps-to the slender shutters of his shop, 

Then in his flapping slippers homeward hies 

To prayer, to pipe, to Fatima's dark eyes. 

In the brass-worker's noisy, bright bazaar 

Hushed are the chaffering and the hammer's jar, 

And silence settling o'er earth's fevered face, 

Soothes for an hour the throbbing market-place. 

One man, a poor artificer in brass, 
Stirs not as forth the hurrying vendors pass ; 
But soon as quiet breathes along the street, 
Springs from his leathern cushion to his feet, 
Lays by the lantern he had shaped that day, 
Looks out along the cleared, deserted way, 
Takes down the bowl of curds and loaf of bread 
That stand upon the shelf above his head, 
Hooks up a curtain o'er his small retreat 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Which opens full upon the busy street, 
Casts one more glance along the farther wall, 
Then hides himself behind the portal-shawl. 

One might have heard within that curtain soon 

A tapping through the hot and quiet noon: 

A strange man this — mayhap for love of gain 

He works mid-day when all for rest are fain ? 

Such was his custom, and the passers by 

Had ceased to scan him with a curious eye. 

The gossips had no tale of him to tell; 

They named him Selim the Unsociable. 

Too poor for note of even the idlest there 

Was he, and why he spent the hour of prayer 

Behind his curtain, save for rest and shade, 

None knew or cared; few were that sought his trade. 

'Twould seem such anxious privacy and heed 

Had little use; the street was bare, indeed, 

Save vagrant dogs that strewed the shining track, 

Like pious Moslems sleeping in a pack, 

Snarling in dream, because the heated bricks 

In poignant fancy smote them like the kicks 

Of Allah's Faithful — snapping jaws in pain, 

Then stretching out their quivering legs again. 

Who treads with silent pace the empty street, 
Then halts and hearkens to that hammer's beat? 
Well might you mark him by his furtive eye 
A friend to Falsehood, grasping, shrewd and sly. 
To Selim's booth he moves, — he makes a stand, — 
The curtain raises with a stealthy hand 
And peers within; the sudden shaft of light 
Flashes a marvelous work upon his sight; 
For lo, between the craftsman's bended knees, 
Prouder than aught that Shah or Sultan sees, 
With lines of purest arabesque enscrolled, 



6 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

A perfume-holder, rich as burnished gold, 
Wrought all in brass, cut round with lace designs, 
With mottoes graved between the flowing lines; 
Of antique mould the base; superbly fair 
The swelling bowl; and like a lily in air 
The stem rose curving; and its feet were wrought 
With cunning art from Indian carvers caught. 
A miracle of rare and patient art, 
Informed by genius ripening from the heart, 
Such as might lift the incense at the shrine 
Of Allah or of Mahomet the Divine. 
One might forego all sense save that, of sight, 
The life-long master of that heart's delight. 

You in the cloud-spanned, amethystine West, 
Know not what ceremonious, prideful zest 
The Persian in his mistless, azure air, 
Brings to his perfume even as 'twere his prayer. 
The perfume-holder, no effeminate whim, 
Holds ever first and honored place with him; 
Drop on the powder but some glowing coals, 
Lo, from its bowl the spiralled perfume rolls; 
Dear unto Allah as the mingled breath 
Of lovers passing through the gates of death. 

To lie awake in one bliss-haunted dream 

Where leaves are rustling and cool fountains gleam, 

Within a vine-hung, lustrous colonnade, 

While near, some large-eyed, love-enchanted maid 

Leans, lily-crowned, against a marble jar, 

Caressing languidly her light guitar, 

Her fingers glancing o'er the shimmering strings 

Like play of moonbeams on deep bubbling springs, 

Wooing the soul of melody divine 

From murmuring streams and groves of haunted pine, 

Her bosom lifting to the waves of sound 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

That have in one delicious languor drowned 
The outer sense, leaving the spirit free 
To revel in one swoon-like ecstasy — 
And then to watch the pungent vapor curl 
With many a slender and fantastic swirl 
Swung through the vibrant music, till the air 
Freighted with tinkling sounds and odors rare 
Filters soul-deep within the fleshly mail, 
Till, rapt, escaping from the body's jail, 
The spirit issuing through its portal flies 
To fairy realms of wonder and surmise — 
Such were indeed a taste of Paradise! 

Small thought of this had he, that sordid spy, 
Who on the masterpiece cast curious eye. 
He was a merchant, trained to every guile 
Of trade, — to fawn, to browbeat, and to smile; 
Careful to hold, in every scheme he tried 
Of fraud or rapine, law upon his side. 
His talon fingers in their crawling clutch 
Pulled forth the shadowing curtain overmuch, 
And Selim, of his presence made aware, 
Looked up and met the intruder's searching stare, 
And frowning, marked the sordid ruthless trace 
Of avarice on the man's ill-omened face. 
Then spake the stranger with a smile compressed, — 
"Selim, has Allah made the time of rest 
Too long, or given too brief a working day, 
That thus you toil the noontide hour away?" 
As some proud courser that with action grand 
Tosses aside a strange caressing hand, 
So Selim threw his head back at the word, 
For hateful to him was the voice he heard, 
And answered: "Surely little rest doth lie 
With him, O merchant, who with delving eye 
Looks either in broad noon or yet at night 



8 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

On that which others fain would keep from sight. 
It naught concerns my business to attest 
Wherefore I work at mid-day or I rest." 

He set aside the wonder-work of art 

And waited for the questioner to depart, 

Whose sidelong, hovering glance was cast about, 

Nor rested but to mark the vessel out. 

He named a price, but Selim shook his head ; 

"Why squander words? 'Tis not for sale," he said. 

The other, following his practiced guile, 

Answered with fawning, unbelieving smile: 

"I have a friend, named Marco, from the North, 

Dealer in finished brass, who ventures forth 

From Venice even to the farthest East; 

He'd give the price of many a lordly feast 

For such a thing as this, would'st thou but sell?" 

But Selim no persuasion might compel 

To barter; wrathful to be thus addressed, 

He locked his treasure in a cedar chest, 

Then to the merchant lifted, one by one, 

The simpler works of brass that he had done, — 

They were but few, — till forth the chafferer went 

And left him with his solitude content. 

But he, the stranger, when he passed from sight 

Of Selim's booth, his face set hard and white, 

Halted, with fingers clenched and frowning brow, 

And pondered deep, as one who frames a vow. 

The swart Egyptian boy who lounged before 

A rich brass-dealer's widely-swinging door 

Watched with a keen and curious surmise 

The wicked purpose in the crafty eyes, 

For every gesture, every glance betrayed 

The heart of greed whose hand would not be stayed. 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

A strident voice came, calling from afar 
The hour of work; at once the clattering jar 
Of hammers rose again athwart the air, 
The seething throng poured back into the fair, 
And through its alleys swirled the babbling flood, 
Like buzzing bees a-swarm within a wood. 
But Selim, through his resting hour intent 
And keenly active, languid now, was bent 
Above the brass-work, as though toil were grown 
Distasteful to him since the noon had flown. 
His hammer strokes, less eager, blow by blow, 
Dropped on the brass, grew slower, still more slow, 
And oft he clasped his brow and closed his eyes, 
Bruised by the coarse discordant market cries; 
Then with a start, as if in self-disdain, 
Caught up the unfinished lantern once again. 



It was a hot and glaring afternoon ; 
Through the bazaar the hum like a bassoon 
Surged constant; presently a clamorous throng 
Came, booming with the beat of drum and gong, 
While, blaring fitfully, the snorting blast 
Of trumpets on the scorching air was cast. 
The gathering scuff of many slippered feet 
Came now low-rustling down the dusty street. 
The loiterers left the shadow of the walls, 
Lured by the shouts and boisterous trumpet-calls. 
The hammer-smiths and chafferers paused as dashed 
The flaunting pageant forth and by them flashed. 
The last Shah's eldest son, 'twas bruited wide, 
Was riding to the mosque to pledge his bride; — 
Next to the Shah, the first of Persian land, 
And named The-Shadow-of-the-Sultans-Hand. 
A royal graft on humble stock whose sword 
Some daring day might make him Iran's lord. 



io THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

But Selim, hooded in one changeless thought, 
Scarce heard the tattle that the gossips brought. 
None sought to cross an easy word with him; 
They deemed his silence but a surly whim. 
He, caring little what was thought or said, 
So that they left him quiet, with bowed head, 
Blind to all else, held survey in his mind 
One memory with his inmost soul entwined. 
The incompleted lantern he let lie; 
The words of rumor as the}; floated by 
Blent with his dream: "The flower of Iran's land 
Is his beloved." He sighed, looked at his hand, 
Then from his finger, slowly and in pain, 
Unwrapped a narrow linen. He was fain 
To draw still further backward from the sting 
Of passing eyes. A tiny hammered thing 
Of brass, close-twisted to a biting ring, 
Around his finger showed, whose tissue, red, 
Twinged to the pressure of the figured shred. 
He wet the cloth, replaced it, while a chime 
Of thoughts went swinging backward to the time 
When she, pale lily of his heart, had stept 
Across the doorway where his goods were kept, 
And in a playful, blithely-mocking vein, 
Had given him this circled pledge of pain. 
Ay, he remembered, how upon that morn 
He felt — all wonder, joy — his soul was born! 
How he had gazed upon her laughing eyes 
As at a Peri wafted from the skies, 
Fairer than houri to the bosom pressed 
Of Mahomet in the regions of the Blest. 
Except those eyes, each glittering like a star, 
Her face was veiled, as in the white cymar 
She glided through the market; oft by chance 
Caught the obeisance and adoring glance 
Of Selim, sitting laboring in his booth; 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER n 

And as she viewed the trembling rose of youth 
Throw signal on his cheek, she smiled, again 
Returned him salutation; now and then 
Loitered some moments at his little stall, 
And then with innocent art by letting fall 
Some corner of her veil, in hide-and-seek, 
Revealed the sweet curved vision of her cheek 
Of ripening olive, like the moon in mist, 
And rose-red lips half parting to be kissed. 

One day — one of those few thrice happy days 
That star perchance a lifetime — his amaze 
Burning his face, and hope still hopeless all, 
Rallying his heart to Love's unreasoning call — 
She came to visit Selim and to buy 
Some trinkets of his patient industry. 
Lingering she stayed an hour; she bade him tell 
The way he wrought the brass ; with playful spell 
Now drew from him the use of lead and pitch; 
Then took the die and punch and bade him teach 
Her hand to cut the ductile metal through; 
One little die she held, 'twas virgin new; 
A tiny whorl the pattern was; she tried 
To punch a strip of brass, while he, to hide 
Her slender fingers from an errant blow, 
Shielded them with his ampler hand, and so 
As once the stroke she missed and still again, 
Still he rejoiced for her he suffered pain. 
At length she gave him back the die; he swore 
With words of fire, no one should use it more 
Except himself, nor he but on some gift 
For her; then she, her laughing eyes uplift 
To Selim's face, and with a doubting air 
Mocking his earnestness, yet told him where 
A kinsman dwelt, whose hand would duly take 
The present he might fashion for her sake. 



12 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Then did her mood to childlike humor pass; 
Again she took a tiny shred of brass 
And twisting it with pincers in a ring 
Round Selim's finger tightly, tried to bring 
Mischievously, across the strong man's face 
A twinge of pain, and smiling left the place. 

And Selim, never from that hour at rest, 
Had shrined her lovely image in his breast; 
A few more times she passed his open door 
Seeking the market, but she smiled no more 
Upon him, though his eyes with hunger sued ; 
That one brief meeting never was renewed. 

Now his roused purpose to one issue ran: 

Upon that day he straight for her began 

A perfume-holder, lavishing his fond heart 

Upon it; for it eased him of his smart 

To feel he wrought her service, and to see 

Its beauty heightening — as some stately tree 

Spreads in the desert — when with the patterned whorl 

He would its richly shining face impearl 

With tiny insets glimmering to the view, 

Fashioned to let the writhing vapor through. 

One name for her he had and only one: 

At each moon-end, his task more nearly done, 

He muttered as with care he placed apart 

The gift, "'Tis for The Star-of-Selim's Heart;" 

The star that touched the wan, the lonely sky 

Of his rapt spirit, and then passed him by. 

And now 'twas finished — every tiny scroll 
Wrought perfect; but the work in Selim's soul 
Was never finished, but incessant beat 
Upon his heart, while through the mid-day heat 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 13 

The hammers with their clinking, changeless chime, 
Dinned out their symphonies to unresting Time. 

He took the cunning tool, the delicate die 
That formed the whorl, and with a gloomy eye 
Defaced its pattern with his file and cast 
The steel, disfeatured, on the street, then passed 
One hand across his brow to smooth its pain, 
And took the unfinished lantern up again. 

Even as he worked a warm Elysian dream 

Closed o'er him like a sunset, gleam on gleam. 

Upon the wings of passion forth he flew 

To clasp her where, unknown to her, in view 

Of fancy he had held her; — next the note 

Of vision changed; he saw her vestments float 

Snow-white through flower-strewn ways, and on her face 

A pleading look, as one who asks for grace; 

For she was now the seeker, and he — where? 

He knew not, cared not, nor could seem to care; 

But down the eddying current of his swound 

A veiled form came that told him "I have found 

My perfume-holder;" straightway he was made 

The perfume-holder; smiling then she laid 

Caressing hands upon it, and did speak 

It fair, and pressed it to her velvet cheek, 

And, like to Allah's blessing, letting fall 

Her silk of hair around in shining pall; 

And over all — the night without a frown, 

And the white moon and stars were shining down. 

Then for one moment, through the hammered brass 

He felt his soul, the soul of Selim, pass 

And tremble to the magic of her touch. 

The moment sped ; there fell low voices, such 

As Allah sends to true believers, when 

He whispers of the crooked ways of men, 



H THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

That called, "O Selim! Where is Selim?" Soon 
A sweet known voice made answer like a tune, 
"I will find Selim, for I know him by 
The ache within his finger" ; then the sky 
Sank, burdened with the sorrow and the pain 
Of blighted souls that on sad earth remain; 
So, forth went that fair form that held the voice 
Among them, seeking, till she found her choice, 
Selim's all-constant pain: with that began 
By the dream-power the building of a man 
Like Selim, yet unlike; the half-things fell 
And crumbled in the falling; but the spell 
Kept on till, lo, the finish — head to feet! 
Then for some moments Selim was complete, 
Sitting in the bazaar, his right hand laid 
Across his hammer, and the lantern stayed 
Between his knees; but nowhere now was seen 
The Star-of-Selim's-Heart — naught but the sheen 
Of brass-ware, and the crowd that thronged again 
The market, babbling of the marriage-train. 

'Twas but some moments more — and the bazaar 

Vanished again — upon an ivory car 

He sits, the enchanting lady by his side. 

Lo, she is wreathed with roses like a bride! 

Bright as Ayesha in the Courts of Day; 

Pearled like a dewy lily in the ray 

Of morning. Like the Shah's his kaftan white 

Flames with a diamond, a deep fount of light, 

A Sultan's ransom; forth in state they ride 

Midst cheers that surge around them like a tide, 

Drawn by a gold-and-crimson-harnessed span 

Of cream-white horses, (such at Ispahan 

Speeds the Shah prayer-ward on great days of state) ;- 

So move they proudly to their blissful fate; 

Flowers rain upon them and their coursers' feet 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 15 

Stamp cloth of gold, as down the echoing street 
They press unto their nuptials — till a band 
With him, The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
Fronts them with challenge; straight a conflict grows-- 
The prince hath claimed the bride — tumult and blows 
Bring blood and death : — now Selim wounded lies, 
His bride and jewel both the prince's prize. 

Again the vision changed ; his memory fought 
Against oblivion, for his mind was wrought 
Still with his finger-ache! Then she again 
Is with him on a wild storm-wasted plain. 
A ponderous iron mace he grasps in hand; 
Forth like the mighty Rustem doth he stand, 
Sheathed in full mail ; to a tremendous round 
Of burnished brass his aching arm is bound; 
A company of leprous devils shout 
Against him; and amidst that evil rout, 
Two Sheitans, fierce and terrible to view 
As the White Demon god-like Rustem slew. 

But the sweet lady, she has naught of fear, — 
She loves him ; to his wounded hand draws near 
And kisses it ; then the Sheitans howl in scorn ; 
While he, alike with love and passion torn, 
Rushes, deep cursing, at the hideous pair, 
And closing on them heaves his mace in air. 

Then suddenly he woke — the finger's pain 

Stung him awake — now in his stall again, 

A poor brass-worker, his bright vision flown, 

Unloved, ignoble, scorned, reviled, alone. 

A laughing, jeering crowd around him kept, 

For he had moved and muttered as he slept; 

And lo! amidst the laughter loud and long, 

The slime-tongued merchant, foremost of the throng, 



16 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Faced him: "O Selim, your brave dreams must spin 

From poppy-head, or some old potent bin 

Of purple Shiraz! Those who hashish eat, 

Like fakirs play thus to the crowded street 

More strange adventures than were ever sung 

By great Firdusi of the silver tongue." 

Then pausing, while the brutal mirth ran high, 

And Selim, too bewildered to reply — 

"I, too, can dream, though scarce of lady's lips, 

And battle, but of merchandise and ships; 

For, while in sleep I rested this mid-day, 

I dreamed that Selim came and heard him say, 

'Here, take thy perfume-holder — I would feast; 

Bring forth thy bezants, be thy name increased; 

Or sell to Marco, if so be thy will, 

To profit thee and me; I'll drink my fill 

Of pleasure; let me flourish and be gay 

And kiss the maid that I have won to-day.' 

Here sits my Selim mooning in his booth; 

Say, has my vision spoken aught but truth?" 

Said Selim: "All I sell is in your view, 

I have no perfume-holder here for you." 

The knavish merchant made him this repeat, 

With crafty leading, to the crowded street. 

Yet once more he began — "But dreams are sent 

From Allah." "Some, not yours" — then Selim bent 

His eye full on him, "I have these to sell, 

If so that you would purchase it is well, 

You shall have value just and good; I need 

Money to-morrow; be the price agreed. 

Or if my wares you want not, pray you cease 

And leave me, in the Name of Whom be Peace." 

Then did the merchant buy of Selim's art 

Some pieces, lothful with his coin to part; 

And took his leave, while Selim, richer grown 

By a few silver coins, did little own 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 17 

For merchandise, save what discarded lay, 
The unfinished lantern. Now he worked away 
Fiercely upon it, that his wearied thought 
Might cease its whispering, and Time be brought 
To mend his pace. So, till the market gate 
Was ready to be closed, he lingered late 
At labor; rising then with anxious care 
He fastened tight the little shutters where 
The treasured gift, his pride and solace stood; 
Then paced the unfriendly street in restless mood. 



That night ill-boding dreams without surcease 

Assailed his spirit, crucified his peace. 

That one short night seemed fraught with danger more 

Than all the hundred nights that went before 

While he his treasure in the chest had kept 

In that deserted market-place. He slept 

Fitfully, briefly, now that once he knew 

A bad man lusted for it; then he threw 

His clothes upon him; wandered up and down 

The winding streets and alleys of the town, 

Still ever passing where his treasure lay 

Behind the palisades which barred the way 

To the brass-worker's moonlit, still bazaar. 

Up raced the savage watch-dogs barking war, 

Leaped at the gate which held twixt them and him 

As though they fain had torn him limb from limb. 

A watchman with his lantern, on his rounds, 

Drew near, attracted by the clamoring hounds, 

Saw Selim, knew him, and passed otherwhere; 

While he, with bodeful brow, kept gazing there 

Between the bars, where one long shadow fell 

Across his shop — a lonely sentinel. 

Thus aimlessly until the dawn of day 

He wore the weary hours of night away. 



18 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Scarce did the market open than his door 

He opened too; then hammered as before 

At the half-finished lantern; next took down 

The perfume-holder, wrapped it, that the town 

Might not view what he carried; then returned 

All quickly home. With what the brass-ware earned 

He clothed himself in festival array 

As though it were for some high holiday; 

Tied with deft hand the perfume4iolder, too, 

Within a broidered silk of creamy hue, 

Wherein he placed a scented billet writ 

In flowing verses when some rhyming fit 

Had seized his spirit in the silent night; 

This a caligrapher did fairly write, _ 

With many a courteous phrase of love profound; 

And various woven flowers the border bound. 

Behold the eager Selim as he stands, 

The perfume-holder lifted in his hands, 

Apparelled fair, ready to play his part 

Of service to the mistress of his heart. 

The full fine head-cloth of white hand-wove stuff, 

Broidered with glimmering gold and threads of buff, 

About a cone of yellow camlet winds; 

Below, a snow-white linen skull-cap binds 

With narrow line his temples, showing fair 

Above his bronzed face and coal-black hair. 

His head is straight, symmetric, small of size, 

As of a steed alert, and his dark eyes 

Are lustrous like a steed's ; an eager grace 

Plays in the outlines of his mobile face; 

The lips are proudly set, the nostrils fine, 

The features delicate and aquiline; 

His tunic like the turban white, each fold 

Of linen with its waving lines of gold; 

A knife-case in the silken shawl is placed 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 19 

Whose graceful folds wind round his slender waist; — 
From far Cashmere to Shiraz shall you see 
No statelier, no braver youth than he. 

The messenger he gained for his emprise 
Was an old woman, good, discreet, and wise; 
But ask not of the look on Selim's face 
As in her hands the love-gift he did place, 
Or while he watched her dragging steps depart 
To her, the sovereign of young Selim's heart! 
He stood in trance while heart and visage burned, 
Waiting until the ancient dame returned. 

O Love, thou pole-star of all souls — proud dream 
Of bliss! dread ruler, passionate and extreme! 
In thy closed hand are wealth, fame, life, and death; 
Self at thy heart, self-sacrifice thy breath; 
The clown thou makest king, the king a clown; 
Thou turnest cowards brave, and with thy frown 
The man of blood is quelled; yea, even the clutch 
Of avarice, groping for the overmuch, 
Yields to thy smile and to thy promise sweet 
Strews its blood-sweated bezants at thy feet; 
But when a heart like Selim's owns thy power 
He is all slave, all votary from that hour ! 

He stood and waited ; years it seemed went by ; 
The glare of mid-day paled across the sky; 
The hum of distant traffic ebbed away, 
And o'er the hills the flame-born god of day 
Seemed to halt yearningly ere, passed from sight, 
He left the lovely city to the night. 
Selim stood, waited; — back she came at last; 
There was no need to question her, he cast 
One look between her hands where she did lift 
Trembling to meet his gaze the unopened gift, 



20 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Saying, "The lady by the Shah's command 
Is wed — The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand !" 

The words struck Selim speechless, he had known 

One joy in life, a dream, his, his alone, 

And he had drank it with a royal art, 

Like Jamshid, till the wakening stung his heart ; 

His head fell forward, for some breathless space 

The blow was deathening; ghastly white in face 

He tottered toward the door like one in years, 

Borne down with grief that scorched the fount of tears. 

Grasping convulsively the brazen jar, 

He found himself again in the bazaar, 

The while with quivering lips, distractedly, 

He muttered texts of old philosophy, 

Groping for consolation, but no heed 

Could give them — ah, how often in our need, 

When earth is black beneath the blackened skies, 

They fail, those deep proud sayings of the wise! 

Yet through his agony was woven a tune 
Of words that clogged his tongue — as 'twere some rune 
Hammering its dreadful rhythm through his brain — 
And mingled with his bitter draught of pain: 

"The Cup of Life with wine or wormwood flows; 
The Leaves of Life keep falling, and the Rose 
Whether at Babylon or at Naishapiir, 
Fades, and her garden mate unheeding blows." 

These were the words of one in Selim's town, 
Gone long before, a sage of wide renown, 
Who learned the mystic law that moves the stars, 
But yet whose soul, foiled at life's prison bars, 
Testing the hollowness of earthly state, 
Mocked sadly at irrevocable fate; 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 21 

And, spite of fame and power by learning won, 
Re-wrote the olden tale of Solomon, 
Chanting the hopeless burden o'er again, 
" 'Tis vain — the life we live, like death, is vain !" 

And Selim turned to work, because he felt 

His reason totter as he slowly spelt 

The branding of the blow upon his soul; 

In work, unceasing work, he might control 

The anguish of his heart, and so — vain, vain 

The miserable days that must remain! 

He had forgot or had not cared to change 

His holiday vestments; down the sun-baked range 

Of the bazaar the whole brass-working tribe 

Broke forth upon him with loud laugh and gibe 

That bit not like the fangs of anguish grim, 

Yet like a swarm of gnats they worried him. 

Yearning to be alone, his soul was wronged 

As round his path the coarse mechanics thronged 

With mock obeisance, gestures rude, uncouth, 

Jeering, as they pursued them to his booth — 

For little love they bore him. "Taunt him well ! 

Is he not Selim the Unsociable, 

Too proud to mingle with his equals?" There 

They crowded close to see how he would stare — 

For a dire chance had happened him: thus he, 

Unto his small store staggered heavily. 

His booth was plundered; all his wares were gone! 
Far worse — his tools! He could not think upon 
Their loss. Their value was not great, but dear 
Almost as were his fingers; misery drear 
Drifted across him; only now remained 
The unfinished lantern, but deformed and stained, 
. As though the plunderer held its value light 
And with his heel had crushed it out of spite. 



22 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

A long time he sat, there in his little shop, 
Still as an image of stone, his head a-prop 
Upon his hands, a ruined man, bereft 
Of all he owned most dear. To him was left, 
When he a little cleared his mind to think, 
(His cup filled full, with madness at the brink), 
Only the gift returned which he still held, 
The perfume-holder; now is he compelled 
To purchase bread and tools; now must he go 
And from the merchant buy a lease of woe. 

Blindness and deafness fell on eye and ear, 
Confounding all, nor grew his sense more clear 
As he went stumbling to the merchant's stand, 
The empty pledge of his false hope in hand. 
The place of sale with merchandise was rich; 
Fine armor blazed from bracket, hook, and niche; 
Sabres from Samarcand and costly shawls 
From Indian looms were hanging on the walls ; 
And Orient ivories, carvings from the Isles 
Within their lacquered cabinets stood in files. 
The shelves were heaped with stuffs of rich brocade; 
Mirrors of steel with silver frames inlaid 
With jewels, glittering daggers, hookahs fine, 
And all the costly wares of Levantine 
And Indian markets crowded all the space. 
As Selim gazed in wonder round the place 
Coarse faces covered him with leering scan, 
Fit tools of service to the sordid man 
Whose slaves they were, and downcast Selim felt 
The transient courage he had groped for melt 
Whole from his heart; his one despairing thought 
Sowed desolation; things against him wrought 
In foul conspiracy. The merchant now 
Began with lowering and contemptuous brow 
To underprice, to scorn, to villify, 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 23 

What he had been so eager once to buy. 

Then asking Selim what his need might be, 

He told him he would take for surety 

The brazen jar and lend him; sadly then 

Said Selim, "I need brass and tools again 

To carry on my trade." The merchant's smile 

Changed to a cold and stealthy look of guile 

As forth he brought a well-assorted pack 

Of half-worn tools; but Selim started back, 

Then clutched — the things were his! Faintness did seize 

Upon him, he felt his very life-blood freeze 

And shrivel; distant, indistinct, and small, 

Looked all things round him; darkness seemed to fall, 

And deathly coldness, blotting earth and sky, 

As though the wing of Asrael brushed him by. 

Suddenly loomed the merchant's hateful face 

Close o'er his own, in horrible grimace; 

Forth sprang two monstrous hands that straightway lay 

Grasp on his brazen treasure and away 

Bore it in triumph to a distant shelf ; 

Then rushed the hot fit on — he flung himself 

In rage against the servants — wildly fought — 

Until his mind some little space was brought 

To hear men's voices dwindling through the dim, 

From faces that he knew ; these said of him 

"Such master work as this is, cannot be 

That foolish Selim's;" sure were these that he 

Wrought nothing of the kind ; they knew him well 

And all his work; he yesterday did tell 

He owned not such a thing; and as he strove, 

Struggling to right himself, they dragged and drove 

Him forth, and nothing but a whirl was there 

Of dust and pressure, anger, and despair; 

Blows rained upon him; one last cruel stroke 

Brought blood — he fell — and then his spirit broke! 



24 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

She who had been to one unhappy heart 

The lode-star of its being, sat apart 

In the zenana's curtained privacy, 

A married captive, never to be free. 

But o'er The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand 

Some time she ruled; the heart she could command 

Of that fierce fighter in his pleasant mood: 

A second wife in sovereign solitude, 

All gave her homage, all her triumph graced, 

Even she, the first wife, whom she had displaced. 

The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand at first 

Was courteous and devoted, but he nursed 

Higher ambition than in flowers to bind 

His mood to service of one girlish mind 

However enchanting, for his heart was set 

On deeds of violence; he could ne'er forget 

The feud, the blood-lust that was his from birth. 

He was a bold, intrepid son of earth, 

A graceful tiger in a leash of silk, 

As mild and pleasant as the coco's milk 

Till call for action came; — a lion-hunt, 

In which he scorned the danger, chose the brunt, 

Or vision of booty and some vengeful raid 

Into Afghanistan, more often swayed 

The councils of his heart, than any charms 

He found within the circle of her arms. 

And she, poor lonely discontented dove, 

Brooded on this, and dreamed had she through love 

Been so far favored in her lot, to fall 

Unto that heart where she was all in all — 

However lowly, howso'er distressed 

By circumstance, by poverty oppressed — 

Life had been happier even with such an one, 

Than that now passed with this proud monarch's son. 

She was unlike the frivolous, tranquil crew 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 25 

Who chattered round about her; often grew 

Intolerable to her vivacious mind 

The still zenana — health and spirit pined. 

But came distress far greater when, one day, 

Returning from some distant, wide foray 

Into Afghanistan, her husband brought 

A captive home, who now held all his thought. 

The superseded wife grew languid, pale; 

Till, part by some new thought to countervail 

Her long depression, part, that she consult 

A famed astrologer, whose art occult 

In all that region was most noted, they 

Who lived about her counselled her one day 

She should a few leagues' distant journey take, 

The drear monotony of her life to break, 

Beyond the turquoise hills and level land 

That fringed the province with its shifting sand. 

Poor lonely star of one lone heart! the love 

Her soul still yearned for like that heaven above 

The Frankish women sought — she had not dreamed 

That it had crossed her; its pale radiance gleamed, 

A heavenly vision through her falling tears, 

Fairer as loomed the vista of the years! 

Bravely again she took life's burden up. 

Hope flowered once more; she had not drained the cup 

Of bitter vintage to its turbid lees. 

She and her escort started as the breeze 

Of early evening swept the fragrant glades 

And waved the banners o'er long colonnades, 

Ruffled the citron blooms and filled the air 

With cool perfume and freshness everywhere; 

Bathed with its dews the earth and purged the sky; 

Soothed the hot valleys with its wandering sigh; 

Fluttered the folds of shawls and turbans loose 

And frolicked in the billowy white burnous; 



26 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

The languid city fanned with healing breath — 
Ay, even awoke the pulse benumbed of death. 

Servants and slaves upon the camels laid 
The tents and baggage ; others were arrayed 
To take the journey, sitting on the packs 
Lashed either side or on the mounded backs; 
And, as a guard, to rearward and before 
Some twenty warriors on white camels bore 
Lances or muskets, and each hump around 
Bright shawls and broidered saddle-cloths were bound. 

From out the gate the ordered camels passed; 

They left the hills behind — then travelled fast 

Across the waste, whose open length was soon 

O'er-lanterned by the lemon-colored moon. 

The guards from time to time their challenge sent 

To plodding footmen on their passage bent 

Unto the city; who when questioned said 

"We are but home-bound miners;" some they stayed, 

The last of these, some moments; at demand 

Why they were journeying in that lonely land, 

These answered humbly, they had carried out 

Into the distant desert thereabout 

A corpse; 'twas of a man who, raving mad, 

Had died in prison; this of what it had 

Of worth they'd stripped; lo, now but from their toil, 

With their sad recompense of wretched spoil. 

The captain forward turned his camel's head 

And told his lady what these men had said. 

Naught further marked their travel; all next day 
They camped ; at evening took again their way ; 
And when at length arose the second sun 
They left the desert, their long journey done; 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 27 

And to the village straight their lady brought 
Where dwelt the famed astrologer she sought. 

The gifts bestowed, with courtesies exchanged, 

A visit for the lady was arranged 

To the mysterious man. His house was small 

And undistinguished; but within the wall 

Was a rich room where he received his guest; 

There hung a time-piece with quaint signs impressed; 

An astrolabe with Chaldic figures stood 

Which told of wandering stars each varying mood, 

Wrought in Egyptian land; a conjurer's crook 

Leaned on a table; in a crypt-like nook 

Lay yellow parchments piled. The languid wife 

Wistfully eyed the man of learned life; 

A sage sedate, a form of mark and note 

In Iran, where the beggar's frowsy coat 

Clothes often king-like men; his tall black cap 

And ample flowing robe of camlet nap 

Were of the finest, and his brow and eye 

Majestic; for through gazing on the sky 

And pondering deeply o'er its mystic lore 

He much of its sublime expression wore. 

Full to the waist, wide down the massive chest, 

His sable beard swept o'er his saffron vest, 

Lending grave dignity and benignant grace, 

Softening the stern lines of his thoughtful face. 

There stands a proverb long in Eastern ken, 

That "no men should wear beards but Persian men." 

The sad-faced lady come to seek his aid, 
Took courage as his features she surveyed. 
Calm, courteous, wise, he seemed ; she told him all 
Was needful to the purpose ; voiced the thrall 
And endless hunger of her heart, and, too, 
Briefly her history; for she saw he knew 



28 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Much of the strivings of tried souls; yes, he 

Was deeply schooled in the philosophy 

And poetry of Iran and the East. 

He soothed her famished spirit with a feast 

Of well-culled verses, wrought for counsel by 

Strong hearts to comfort life's extremity; 

Down from the words of Solomon the Wise 

To the star-gazer poet, who now lies 

In her own city in unchanging rest, 

The clods and burial stones across his breast. ' 

The words of counsel past, ere she her way 

Took thence, he told her he, the following day, 

The issue of his searchings of the night 

Would send her. She, too, watched the twinkling light 

Of stars, that through the heavens unswerving kept 

Their doomful path. Beneath them mortals slept 

As though no seeds of fate within them lay. 

Keepers of how many secrets they 

Of human lives, revealers of how few, 

Though their eternal witness fronts our view! 

Alas, they did not to her soul impart 

That one had called her "Star-of-Selim's-Heart." 

Next morn in scented silk the missive came: 
"To the Most High and Honorable Dame, 
Moon to the Shadow-of-the-Sultans-Hand, 
Fairest of all the fair of Persian land! 
In name of Allah whom the faithful call 
The Merciful, Victorious, Chief of All: 
The Stars, O Lady, speak the truth, tho' man 
Not always may their mystic answer scan; 
Thrice have I read to-night the face of Heaven, 
And thrice to me this answer hath been given, 
These silent words of fate and mystery : 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 29 

'A FLIGHT OF RAVENS'.' 

May it rest with thee, 
O Lady, to interpret them aright, 
And may they throw upon thy darkness light 
According to thy heart; and may the peace 
Of Allah, who alone gives souls increase, 
Be shown to Thee. This is the prayer devout 
Of him, the unworthiest of thy servants; doubt 
Not He will send thee grace. 

Written by the hand 
Of Hassan of the Astrolabe, to command." 

She, bearing these words with her, now began 
Her homeward journey, pondering; still ran 
Her thoughts along one line; her mind was bent 
Upon the answer of the stars, that went 
Ever before her like a vision blest, 
Guiding her to her solace and her quest. 

It was the chill and silent time of night 
Before the rose-crowned, pearly-vestured Light 
Loops joyance round the world; mysterious hour, 
When Azrael comes with all his awful power 
To loose the souls of men and women old 
From their worn bodies, and in numbing fold 
The fluttering spirit wraps and bears away 
To realms of utter midnight or of day. 

The camel-train paced slowly; rose the dust 
As each broad foot into the sand was thrust, 
And fell again full quickly, beaten down 
By the damp air; a distant eastward frown 
Against the sky betokened hills; the sun 
Beyond the shade-land soon prepared to run 
His course; the watchful guards from time to time 
Turned in their saddles to behold him climb 



30 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

The hill-tops; o'er the desert's lonely gray 
Paling for leagues beyond, the film of day 
Pressed a faint outline; an uneven spur, 
Dimly defined against the mist-like blur, 
Breaking the outline, showed them Naishapur. 

As the round sun flamed o'er the hills again, 
Startled by that or by the camel-train, 
A clamorous flight of birds upon one hand 
Trailed from some object on the distant sand. 
The lady, resting in uneasy sleep, 
Awoke as o'er her swished the bustling sweep 
Of wings, and from her litter watched them float, 
Ominous and black, against the heaven remote, 
New-lighted by the half-way risen sun, 
Which o'er the pallid sky his splendor spun. 
Flush to her mind, as from the written page, 
There rushed the words of the star-gazing sage, — 
"A flight of ravens;" straight she waved her hand 
And gave the captain of the train command 
She must at once be carried to the place 
Whence rose the birds of omen; with ill grace 
He turned to do her will, for now would day 
The naked desert scourge with burning ray. 
The slow procession wheeled, the distance spanned,- 
And lo, a skeleton bleaching on the sand ! 

"O fairest lady," cried the chief in tones 

Sore vext, "Let Allah hear me; 'tis but bones 

Of some wayfarer, slain or gone astray 

Here in the desert; others for a prey 

Than these same birds have found him; doth abide 

With him no coin, nor weapon at his side." 

"In name of Allah, Merciful and Just, 

Some of you men dismount and straightway thrust 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 31 

Around him; search each bit of cloth and bone 
And see if aught about him may be known." 

Unwillingly, and cursing the delay 
Among themselves, they slowly did obey. 
They lifted with their spears each ragged clout, 
And with their muskets shoved the bones about. 

"Nothing, fair lady, nothing," cried the chief, 

Climbing across his saddle with relief; 

Then set the train in motion, well content 

To quit their tarrying. Soon thereafter went 

Unto the litter one who lingered late. 

No word he said, but with a smile sedate 

Handed his lady a sere, tiny thing 

Of white and yellow bone. Round it a ring 

Or shred of brass, tight-twisted, bore along 

Each edge, at intervals, impression strong, 

Irregular, a little whorl, which she 

Caught at as from the man of mystery. 

She placed it in the hollow of her hand 

And gazed and gazed, till in the slender band 

Of brass she found the token — yes, the day 

That she on Selim's finger in her play 

Had twisted it! again the constant gaze 

Which searched her footsteps through the market ways; 

Again the dream, the hope, the flushed surprise 

That starred with love those dark and thoughtful eyes. 

To this, then, he had come! Ay, well, — alas! 
She knew the tiny pattern on the brass, 
And all in tears she scanned it; he had said, 
She now remembered — in his little shed — 
He, poor dead Selim, her lone worshipper, — 
The tool that made it, save on gift for her, 
Should not be used; yes, he whose bones now lie 



32 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

Strewing the sand, beneath the pitiless sky, 

All save this one, this small ringed finger bone, 

Relic of sacred love, hers, hers alone! 

The one cold token of the constant flame 

That burned within his breast. O hour of shame! 

This dry white bone reproached her ! Witness now 

Poor dumb starved heart the fervor of her vow! 

Witness her tears and kisses and her head 

Bent o'er this voiceless pleader for the dead, 

Laid now upon her soft grief-burdened breast, 

There, while that heart should beat with life, to rest. 

The lusty sun stared fiercely, free and high, 

When they had reached the city. The blue sky 

Shone dazzling clear, save where some fine-combed clouds 

Straggled across; as they were souls in shrouds 

Speeding to heaven ; or travellers single-file, 

Moving apart, as tho in fear of guile, 

Wrapping their parching bodies from the glare 

And dusty highway. The zenana's air 

Unto The Star-of-Selim's-Heart was cool 

And comforting, as, fresh from out the pool 

Of perfumed water on the rich divan 

She lay, and over her waved an Indian fan 

Held by a favorite maid. The silken door 

Opened, two little girls between them bore 

A shrouded present, which by high command, 

Her lord's, The Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 

On her return be given her. Listlessly 

She loosed the first silk wrappings — paused — for she 

Saw surely 'twas some growth of royal art, 

Even such a love-work as some loyal heart 

Like Selim's might have pledged her. She unwound 

The silk with wakened care, in thought profound. 

Oh, miracle of genius proud and pure! 

He promised her such a gift; alas! how poor 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 33 

The man who loved her was; she had not cared 
For him or his — ah, heaven, had he been spared! 
Selim's own self this wonder might have wrought — 
Selim's sweet self, had he not come to naught. 
It wronged, insulted him; for daily need 
Had bound that hand from such a lavish deed. 
Faint murmurings were thronging in her ears; 
She watched it glimmering through her mist of tears; 
Seen midst them, the entrancing, matchless thing 
Loomed indistinct, gigantic, wavering. 

As her tears fell she wiped them fast away ; 

Then seeing more clearly, something bade her lay 

Grasp on the brazen vessel, while her gaze 

Grew fixed, grew all excitement, all amaze; 

Then 'gainst her breast she strained it with a sob; 

And as her heart, rallying with mighty throb, 

Shook deep her being all her loosened hair 

Enshrined the perfume-holder like a prayer. 

There — there — deep-graved the proof of matchless love! 

Each scrolled and burnished strip of brass above, 

Upon each ornamental fillet's round, 

The same fine-patterned tiny whorl was found! 

The same with which his finger, once, she bruised 

And fastened — from the die herself had used! 

Yes, Selim's gift had come to her — his love 81 

Had found her after death; ay* there above, 

Even in the distant realms of bliss, new cheer 

Must come to him; had she not grown more near 

Unto his spirit though his outcast bones 

Lay whitening on the desert's sands and stones — 

All save this finger token? But there — look! 

Graved on the brass his words, the open book 

Of Selim's love — the words he never said 

In life — his faithful message from the dead! 






34 THE PERFUME-HOLDER 

"Dove of my soul, thou white and wondrous dove, 
My Heaven is with thee ; nor did Allah's love 
Ever send Peri unto suffering earth 
Fair as thou art, O lily of fragrant birth! 
Star of love's sky, rise pure and dwell apart 
To sanctity the floiver-land of my heart. 
Behold the first fruits of my pledge to thee; 
Queen of my dreams, be merciful to me." 



That evening, from the spot the camel-train 
Had halted on when day broke o'er the plain, 
Saw the same sun, soft-barred with roseate streaks, 
Dying away between the western peaks; 
And as he sank from view the low sweet breath 
Of twilight sighed above the day-god's death; 
But swelled at night and through the star-lit space 
A requiem swayed across the desert's face ; 
And as it wailed its dreary, weird refrain 
Along the hills and o'er the barren plain, 
Cast heavy handfuls of soft sand where lay 
A dead man's bones — and when the eye of day 
Searched for them, lo, the desert held its trust, 
Folded forever in its shroud of dust. 



And in the night that breeze with plaintive sigh 
Breathed through the lonely latticed turret high 
That pinnacled a palace; wandering there, 
Entered a dim-lit chamber, strewing rare 
Spiced odors forth along the midnight air 
From a brass perfume-holder — such sweet breath 
As rises scarcely at a monarch's death. 

And in that silence a pale, tearful-eyed ' 
Woman inhaled the perfume — watched it glide 



THE PERFUME-HOLDER 35 

Toward the desert; on her heaving breast 
One trembling hand she laid; beneath it pressed 
A silken case, which hid a little bone 
And shred of hammered brass . . . 

No more is known. 



MAJOR POEMS 






HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 

MAGNET of the exploring mind, 
Joy of nature unconfined, 
Spirit of the ideal, rare 
Artist working everywhere, 
Posting on thy restless pinion 
O'er thy imperial dominion, 
Painting all the turning year 
An enswathed planetsphere ; 
Child of Fancy and Delight, 
Joyous, e'er enchanting sprite, — 
Thou alone hast all completeness ; 
Perfect thou in strength and sweetness; 
Ere blind Saturn held commission 
Thou hadst heavenly manumission, 
Ere grey wrinkled Time was young 
Jove with music tipped thy tongue, 
And so dowered thee with charms 
That he thrilled with love's alarms; 
All enamoured of thy face 
Straightway clasped thee in embrace 
And the keys of Heaven and Hell 
Yielded to thy potent spell. 
Hebe was thy handmaid, she 
Taught thee grace and favor free; 
Told thee many a mystic story 
Of Olympus' olden glory, 
Ere the strife in Heaven began, 
Or ere Earth's first eons ran. 
Lusty Bacchus owned thy sway; 
39 



40 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 

At thy feet his thyrsus lay; 

Other loves he heeded not, 

Ariadne was forgot, 

Turned thy votary and for thee 

Herded sheep in Arcady. 

Brawling Mars would pine and sigh 

For one glance of thy bright eye; 

He would lay his helmet down 

At thy slightest nod or frown; 

He would bind his flowing locks 

With the blue fond-lovers phlox, 

But to lend some passing grace 

To his harsh forbidding face. 

He would call thee "dear" and "sweet," 

Sitting suppliant at thy feet. 

Thou couldst thrill his heart with fear 

For thy distaff claimdst his spear; 

Made thy mirror of his shield, 

Once the torment of the field, 

And his blood-dewed laurel bough 

Rested on thy mocking brow. 

Thou has quaffed the mountain lymphs 

Oft amidst Diana's nymphs 

When the rosy fingered Dawn 

Hath the day bolts fairly drawn 

For the safforn vestured East, 

Ushering Nature's great high priest, 

When he comes in golden state 

Thru his azure arched gate. 

Oft in some sequestered nook, 

Gazing idly on a brook, 

Thee the rustic Pan hath seen 

Full length on a bank of green. 

Thy blown robes and floating hair 

Oft thru fields and uplands fair 

He would glimpse as on thy way 



HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 41 

Thou wouldst with the shadows play, 

And his silent pipe would slip 

From his curved, half-smiling lip. 

He would leave the charmed flocks 

Clipping still their verdured rocks, 

Follow thee thru forest lanes 

Down which drifted sunshine strains 

In a mist of filtered light 

Thru the dense umbrageous night 

To the shy nymph's bathing place, — 

Where the caverned rocks embrace 

One of Nature's hidden nooks; 

Where the mild midsummer brooks 

Loiter, loth to leave, and hide 

Neath the banks their purling tide, 

And the curtaining waters fall 

Foaming o'er the moss-hung wall. 

Still his soul within him burned, — 

When the leaves were backward turned 

Of the poplars tall and fair, 

Knew that thou wert passing there, 

Caught the fairy fantasy 

Of thy fluttering drapery; 

And howe'er he still pursued, 

And howe'er thy favor wooed, 

Still thy laughter rippled back 

All along thy shining track; 

Still thy fairness lured him on 

Till he some slight favor won; 

Flower or love wreath from thy hair, 

Or a kiss thrown on the air, 

Or a glance of roguish guile, 

Or a courtesy or a smile. 

Lovely sprite, ethereal elf, 
Thou art Concord's second self, 



42 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 

Thou art Melody's mateless voice, 
Thou art Nature's dateless choice, 
Thou art Purity's inner glow, 
Thou art Culture's outward show; 
Thou appearest to the seer 
Where no earth-born forms are near, 
And thou breathest upon his thought 
Till it glories, star-enwrought, 
Thru the unmeasured fields of space 
To the heavens high dwelling-place, 
Till unnumbered spheres it sees 
Hung in crystal galaxies. 

Thou, queen mother of the Loves, 
In thy pearl car drawn by doves, 
Rulest o'er the human heart 
With an ever alluring art; 
Never granting full fruition 
To its ideal or ambition; 
Still compelling it to turn 
Toward a lovelier something, turn 
On the axis of its thought, 
Seeking that still vainly sought, 
Avatar of blissful life, 
Uncontaminate of strife. 

All unconscious of thy wile, 
Careless youth, thou dost beguile; 
Following up thy conquest won 
Each new-born, diurnal sun, 
Till thou flash on him surprise 
Thru some sweet-faced maiden's eyes; 
With intoxicating kisses 
Luring him to a heaven of blisses, 
To the Elysian Fields of love, 
Where the skies are gold above; 



HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 43 

Where the flowerets never fade; 

Where no upas casts its shade 

'Gainst the sun-down tinted sky; 

Where the dew is never dry 

On the petals of the rose; 

Where in chiming silver flows 

The brook, unbound by wintry frost, 

And by dog-star drouths uncrossed; 

Where the perfume laden breeze 

Wafted from the Hesperides 

Blends its murmuring with the bees; — 

There his nightly dreams are fair 

As the soft blue-violet air, 

Till with golden locks outspread 

Titan lifts his morning head 

And night's minions flee away 

From the victor crowned Day. 

But a fuller bliss hath grown 

Than these earth-born forms have known ; 

Thou hast still a nobler part, 

Mistress of the poet's heart! 

He shall limn thee as thou dost stand 

Fresh and fair from God's own hand, 

And the fadeless aureole spread 

Of rapt sainthood round thy head; 

He, thy champion, aye hath worn 

Thy bright favors, proudly torn 

Thru the hard won, fateful day, 

Trophies from the field away. 

He hath been thy high-priest, he 

Hath adorned, enfranchised thee, 

And hath offered up his heart 

On the fire wave of his art; 

He will still contented dwell 

Thou sole inmate of the cell 



44 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 

Of his dream life, and hath borne 
Oft for thee the cross of scorn. 
As I too have borne for thee 
Scorn and bitter mockery; 
As thou, too, hast dwelt apart 
In the fastness of my heart, 
And hast whispered to mine ear 
Words which none beside may hear. 
Mistress of my earliest choice 
Of the sylphlike form and voice, 
O'er me still thy glamor throw, — 
Spirit, all to thee I owe! 



ASTROPHEL 

(In memory of Benjamin Lambord, died June, 1915) 

I HAVE loved life — I have loved life too well! 
For sorrow dies not, yearning will not cease; 
I have loved life, the life of Astrophel, 
Of Astrophel, who lieth now at peace; 
Peace from world care and wasting ills increase; 
Free from Earth's galling ill requited toil; 

One with the thousand stars of artist Greece ; 
Reprieved from niggard Fortune's cumbering moil, 
And chill despondent doubts that did his genius foil. 

I scarce can sense he has renounced our life; — 

Spring lingers with her trophies; birds and trees 
And bourgeoning flowers are with earth-rapture rife, 

Their sentient perfumes load the rhythmed breeze. 

My heart should hold in tune with all of these; 
It should with that warm ravishment accord; 

Why drain this bitter potion to the lees 
While he triumphant stands with spirits adored, 
Elect of earth and Heaven who waiteth on the Lord? 

Philosophy, wise mentor, grant me balm! 

Alas, I gain small comfort from your book; 
I seem as life shows round me, careless, calm; 

I would not aught should on my sorrow look. 

Even by my dearest friends I am mistook; 
Something has gone from day I know not where; 

And yet the sunbeam flickers on the brook; 

45 



46 ASTROPHEL 

Music and happy voices thrill the air, 

And summer dawns in pride and life blooms lush and fair. 

Why here have chosen, Death? there are enough 

Of passing souls to glut thy greedy hand; 
Blood streams in torrents, rivers, and the stuff 

Of carnage reeks to Heaven from every land; 

On every side thy sable plumes are fanned; 
The beautiful, the gifted, brave go down 

Daily to that mysterious, shadowed strand 
That lies beyond the country-side and town; 
That hides so much of love, dream, promise, hope, renown. 

They all are thine — that press of stagnant souls 

Alien to claim on Heaven; knaves, dolts and fools 
Cumbering the earth; blind, burrowing money moles; 

Rakes lingering on their late repentance stools; 

There fails no plethora of men whose rules 
Of life outbrave the tiger and the pike; 

Untamed by pity and untaught by schools 
Of love or duty; each and all alike 
Preying on weakened life and seeking where to strike. 

Then to choose him — the purity of whose life 

Was rainbowed, Ariel rescued from the pine; 
Whose spirit soared above this world of strife 

Even as a falcon loosened from its line; 

Who quaffed all beauty as a youth drains wine; 
Thirsted for knowledge as a saint for God; 

Whose soul was keyed to harmonies divine, 
Climbing those minstrel marches few have trod, 
Plucking rare flowers of song from that Olympian sod. 

I mourn for Astrophel — ah, none is left 
To take his place, the Muse's darling son! 



ASTROPHEL 47 

The world unknowing him, is still bereft 

Of all the dazzling themes he might have done. 
Yet he his finished course has proudly run, 

Nor truckled to a crass, material time; 

Yes, he to valorous laurelled heights had won 

In the glad workday of his youthful prime: — 

Now naught remains except to grace his corse with rhyme. 

For he loved books and could with practiced pen 

Clothe balanced thought in lucid shining phrase; 
The mounts of song were captured in his ken 

From Palestrina to these full-sounding days; 

While his own lyre was strung to magic lays 
Such as lend wings to man ; like him who smote 

Sublime the storied Lied, his genius sways 
The variant turns of the vibrating note, 
Till thru the ethereal field those heaven-tuned echoes float. 

And they are of the heritage of man's soul; 

Part of the temple structure of that art 
Which o'er unnamed emotion takes control, 

The spirit sailing on without a chart; 

He held no claim or dealing with the mart 
That over lesser natures makes demand; 

Love, Pathos, Aspiration, played their part; 
Those proud familiars came at his command, 
Which he controlled with strenuous soul and plastic hand. 

He lived for art — for more he lived to me. 

I scarce can think that he has passed beyond; 
The genial tone, the voiced thought high and free, 

The aeolian life of which all hearts were fond, 

The gentle presence, drew me with a bond 
Time cannot alter, circumstance replace; 

That natural dignity his soul had donned 



48 ASTROPHEL 

Stood lightened by its loveliness and grace, 

With Mozart's winning smile and clean cut cameo face. 

Even now I see him — he comes thru the door 

With hat in hand and book beneath his arm; 
The lithe, light tread on the unthinking floor, 

The room all brightened, — breathing forth his charm; 

He seemed a creature no ill thing could harm; 
So kind, so courteous, loving, debonaire; 

I heard no threatening of that dire alarm 
That could dissolve such sweetness into air; 
No thought but Heaven to me would still that largesse spare. 

And yet — and yet — who knows, ah me, who knows! 

It must be as the soldier falls to-day, 
Striking for country, home, — whose life blood flows 

Across the front of his unconscious clay, — 

Spurning rich life that Freedom shall make way, — 
So has he fought his fight and held his stand 

On art, his art, which shall at last bear sway; 
And that transcendent song that he had planned 
Survive, a torso prized, wrought by a master's hand. 

If so, no traffic hold with vain regret; 

Let us cheer Sorrow from our doors; still burn 
The incense of our love, and proudly set 

Remembrance high with chant and flowering urn; 

He left his heart behind him, let us turn 
To those brave melodies struck for after time; — 

The deer has not more passion for the fern 
Than that fine gallant soul for the sublime; 
Now, now, perchance, enthralled by some celestial chime. 

Seek him not then, O Kin-folk, in the grave! 
That which you wept escaped, it is not there; 



ASTROPHEL 49 

Invoke his song, it is his message brave, 

His best of earth which we who loved him share. 
In that his immortality shines fair; 

That is his aureole, 'tis his heavenly crown ; 

That is his trust to earth which Time shall spare; 

Death threats not that, howe'er on all he frown; 

Abashed before a claim his power may not put down. 

My plaint fails earth-bound — but the end is peace. 

The clouds disperse, the showers of grief are past ; 
The tears, the sighs, the vain regrets shall cease, 

The treasured memories shine, we hold them fast; 

Doubt and despondency behind are cast; 
For Astrophel inhabiteth his star, 

The star of immortality; at last 
The beam breaks o'er us from that realm afar, 
Which Fate nor Death may shock, nor Time nor Custom 
mar. 



ODE TO SPRING 

BLITHE Flora, goddess of the opening year, 
Queen of the birth of love and warm desire 
Youngest of sovereigns of this variant sphere, 
Thou who had'st Pan for brother, Jove for sire, 
Fairest earth patron of the heavenly choir, 
Blest harbinger of plenty and increase, 

Bright incense-bringer, vestal of the fire, 
Priestess of life and joyance, beauty, peace, 
Bearing within thy robes the balm for cares surcease; — 

Thou, the adored of Earth, boon Nature's hope; 

Joy of the winter prisoned and winter marred; 
Who settest all hearts aflame, giv'st prescience scope, 

Wings to the venturous spirit, to the bard 

His hippogriff of Fancy; guide and guard 
Of every live thing that exalts thy reign; 

Urging thy forest children, stripped and scarred, 
To cloak their naked limbs with leaves again; 
Coaxing Earth's timid flowers to smile o'er hill and plain ;- 

Mother of all winged things, what time the brooks 

Unloose themselves from Winter's hampering chain; 
Gathering in windy pines the clamorous rooks, 

And scattering balms and scents o'er hill and plain; 

Who dost the budding emerald life sustain 
To its full flower in Summer's lordly pride, 

And o'er their tender lives thy tents maintain 
Of clouds and rains, and spreadest far and wide 
Thy spangled web of dews across the country-side; — 

50 



ODE TO SPRING 51 

Thou who athwart the winter-conquered earth, 

The ice-bound streams, the desolated land, 
Sweep'st on thy air-borne car, with kindly mirth 

Thy fragrant largesse scattering on each hand; 

Blessing the Earth's and Sun's new marriage band; 
Coursing the fiends of Winter to their lairs; 

Who, like the Virgin Mother still dost stand 
Agent of Resurrection, Queen of Prayers; — 
List him who greets thy reign and all thy bounty shares! 

Hearken to him who loved thee while a boy, 
Ay, with intensest passion, and who keeps 

The memories ever of that childhood joy 

Thru manhood's cares, decline, and barren deeps; , 
Yea, even to-day his spirit sings and leaps 

To view thy breath awakening the trees ; 
To hear thy forces mustering, as sweeps 

Thy airy chariot o'er the woods and leas, 

With all the South in train and murmuring down the breeze. 

Long has the Mother waited — deep, close down 

Within her breast she hides her children frail; 
Above their sentient germs she spreads her gown 

Of leaves to fence them from the frost and gale. 

The patient Fosterer knows thou wilt not fail; 
She wards with care her weaklings all from scath ; 

Let Winter do his worst, she will not quail, 
Although he lash her in his churlish wrath 
And o'er her prostrate pride urge his unpitying path. 

Oh, how her heart rejoices when thy horn 

Is wound by boisterous March across the hills, 

While wavering Winter, baffled and outworn, 
Withdraws from his wide theatre of ills ; 
While all his ensigns, hanging from the sills, 



52 ODE TO SPRING 

Are by thy breath blown forth in clouds and rain 

To speed thy triumph, to feed full the rills 
Which, now enfranchised, leap down hill and plain 
And shout their joyous news to river, lake, and main. 

Within the star-pranked palace of the skies, 

The young moon on thy arm, thou lov'st to rest, 
While the warm South- Wind on thy mandate flies 

Urging thy rule to North and East and West ; 

While Winter's legions, smitten and sorely pressed, 
Shriek through each mountain pass in forced retreat; 

While from Earth's late mute, desolated breast 
Rise sounds of life and joy and odors sweet, 
Distilled by Heaven's own dew and borne by zephyrs' feet. 



Sweet April, child of sunshine and of tears, 

Attends thee with her violets; jocund May 
Comes ever smiling through the cycled years, 

Her daisies and her hawthorn flowers to lay 

Upon thine altar; regal June, alway 
Garlands thy brow with roses till thy child, 

Gay, wanton Summer, flaunts her sumptuous way 
O'er hill and holt, o'er every field and wild, 
And vainly would outcharm the hearts by thee beguiled. 

Fair, faithful harbinger of fruitful life, 

What were this Earth deprived thee? What were noon 
Without the dawning? Winter's toil and strife 

How borne without the promise of thy boon? 

Thy clouds, thy rains, thy blooms, the bubbling rune 
Of brooks, the diapason of the trees, 

The hum of insect life, the varied tune 
Of birds, the buzzing of the questing bees, 
And all the pageantry of life thou lead'st across the leas. 



ODE TO SPRING 53 

And he whose soul was to thy flowers allied, 

Sweet minstrel, with thy promise in his heart; 
In his own Spring, in his rapt dream and pride 

Of genius struck by Death's untimely dart; 

Lover of books and beauty and that art 
To which he gave his best, now lieth low, 

Even as thyself wilt lie — the tears that start 
Are for no vulgar earth ; no pomp or show 
Of kings might honor him whose worth I once did know. 

'Twere fitting that his dream should close with thine, 

Like Keats's, and the fevered heart which yearned 
To sound the depths of that emotioned sea 

Of rhythm, that surging thru his spirit burned, — 

Or when, like Orpheus, his fancy turned 
To magic measures, charming old and young, 

Giving in plenteous store the love he earned 
Back to those friends for whose delight he sung, — 
Even now cut down when Fame had her first chaplet flung. 

Let me, too, pass as he did, in thy time ; 

My own Spring long has withered, and that fame 
Which comes of work well wrought, the wreath sublime 

Of Poesy, has never crowned my name. 

Yet would I pass like him, devoid of blame, 
Of selfish, sordid passion. Goddess, hear — 

Keep thou my heart like thine! let me still claim 
The love and joyance of the opening year; 
Thy dauntless strife 'gainst Time, thy soul's unfailing cheer ! 

Yet, Goddess, what are passing lives to thee! 

Mother and nurse of every living thing, 
Thy endless chain of years, thy agency 

Remains the same, tho all man's pride takes wing; 

Ever thou buildest for the garnering; 



54 ODE TO SPRING 

Thy rains, thy dews, thy beams impartial fall; 

Ay, every year thy birds of promise sing 
To usher in the Summer's carnival; 
Love, Life, Hope, Liberty enswathing all. 



ODE TO AUTUMN 

DAUGHTER of Ceres, round whose wain-like car 
Vine-wreathed nymphs and goat-hoofed satyrs dance; 
When down the twilight deeps the Evening Star 
Casts her pale glimmer o'er thy realm's expanse; 
Or when the Harvest Moon with mellow glance 
Is hung thy lantern in the fields of air; 

Or when the cohorts of the Morn advance 
With brazen standard and with lances' flare, 
Queen of the plenteous time, still is thy presence fair! 

Thou art not crowned with blooms like siren Spring, 

Nor with voluptuous Summer's glories dight; 
But late the birds within thy bowers sing, 

And thou hast days of lingering cool delight; 

And thou with gracious and benignant might 
Art matron o'er earth's tilled and garnered store; 

Her fruits of gold, green, russet, purple, white, 
Her heaped up treasures of the threshing floor, 
The frothed October brew and wine-vats brimming o'er. 

And thou too hast a glory all thine own, — 
The wampum of the woods, the violet skies; 

The barley rippling as the wind is blown 

Along the northland marches; the rich prize 
Of yellow pumpkins, sprawling huge of size; 

The tasseled silken plumes of soldier maize; 

The grapes dark ruddy with their vintage dyes; 

The blushing peaches, and the pear which sways 

Its brown-enameled gold o'er the close orchard ways. 

55 



56 ODE TO AUTUMN 

Oh, Autumn, where is now thy regal worth? 

Sad palmer queen in Nature's amice gray, 
'Tis bleak November, — all thy pride of birth 

Is folded mutely from the view of day ! 

Vainly the foliage thou wouldst overlay 
With pigments of thy sundown painted skies; 

For while the trees their liveried pomp display 
Of gala tints and variegated dyes, 
Winter to fragments rends their cloaks with taunting cries. 

Yes, Winter, thy fell rival, now will turn 

Thy whispering verdure into howling waste, 
And choke the pregnant flow of Plenty's urn, 

And clog the streams with firm and shining paste; 

Across the northern moors he maketh haste, 
Behind his coursers, furious, fleet, and pale, 

In ermine robes and hoary terrors graced, 
With shrouded messengers of sleet and hail, 
His javelined, ghostly scouts who guide the impending gale. 

What if the impatient North winds round thee blow 

Their hoarse-tongued trumpets as their King draws 
near, — 
Thou still wilt triumph, tho with manes of snow 

The steeds of Boreas sweep in wild career ; 

Ay, when he hurls his stealthy icy spear 
Far o'er the dun waste and the shivering wold, 

Nature in dumb defiance, grim and sere, 
Fenced by thy foresight from the invading cold, 
Scorns his unkemped rage, ruthless and over bold. 

But when beside the shining Christmas board 
In blithe accord the household kindred meet, 

When forth is spread the lush life-giving hoard 

While round the doors the North-wind's coursers fleet, — 



ODE TO AUTUMN 57 

Then when the Patriarch takes his honored seat 
To ask Heaven's blessing on the plenteous fare, — 

Then must thy heart rejoice! then most complete 
Thy triumph — tho before the keen-lashed air 
Thy chariot, rolling south, hath crossed the uplands bare. 

Guardian of fruitful life! what thee we owe 

We can with naught save gratitude repay; 
All that we are, all that we feel and know, 

Directly to thy bounty we must lay; 

Far do thy thoughtful favors overweigh 
Gay, wanton Summer's flushed and haughty grace; 

Thou art our yearly hope, our daily stay, 
For ere thou yield'st thy throne and dwelling place, 
Thou dost provide for man till thou renew'st thy race. 

Autumn, God rules through thee ! thy hand alone 
Guides opulent Progress with potential care ; 

If thou but frown, dark spirits forth are flown, 
Satan's fell angels from their dreadful lair, — 
Hunger, Theft, Madness, Pestilence, Despair, 

And Blasphemy ! Great sovereign of Increase, 
Still kindly listen to thy suppliant's prayer! 

Grant bread to life! ay, give without surcease! 

And spread o'er thankful earth the Saturnian reign of 
Peace ! 



ODE TO WINTER 

MONARCH of polar realms, at whose hoar breath 
Even the hearts' most passionate tides congeal; 
King of frore winds and patron friend of Death, 
Fortressed by icebergs as with towers of steel; 
To whose stern march man's haughtiest navies reel, 
Or plunge sheer down through ocean's champing waves; 
Who on heaven-prideful mountains stamp'st thy seal; 
Blighter of births and fructifier of graves; 
Sovereign first crowned on earth, whose subjects all are 
slaves ; — 

At whose fell frown sense fails and hope departs ; 

At whose hoarse voice weak mortals cower with dread ; 
Shriveling the poor, blocking the roads and marts, 

Blasting where'er thy boreal flags are spread; 

At sight of whose wild steeds, disheveled head, 
Beasts, reptiles, insects wither and waste from day ; 

From whose grim gaze the choiring birds are fled; 
Thy one desire to ravage, wreck and slay; 
What curse bears earth like thee — what prayer thy hand 
can stay? 

From thy pale wrath scarce Heaven itself escapes. 

Thou stripp'st their brave, warm livery from the trees; 
Nor even weak herbs avoid thy vengeance rapes, 

Scathing the valley depths or upland leas ; 

Scouting round Spring with keen and barbed breeze, 
Frequent thou dost her genial realm surprise; 

Her broidered zone and wind-flower garland seize; 

58 



ODE TO WINTER 59 

Howling with rage through all her shuddering skies; 
Marring her emerald robes, dimming her mild blue eyes. 

Nor stands even Summer from thy raids exempt; 

Thou her rose-coronet tear'st with pelting hail; 
Oft Autumn's wain and horn thou dost attempt, 

Crippling her husbandry with venomed gale; 

The huddling clouds before thy coming quail ; 
The brawling brooks hush timorous to their chains ; 

The hardy wild-fowl scour with bodeful wail 
Before thy vanward sleets and skirmish rains, 
Whose annual trumpets shriek thine onset o'er the plains. 

Round thy swift wheel throng blood-hounds — Famine glares 

From the strained-leash, impatient for his prey; 
Consumption, gaunt and ghastly, round him stares, 

Singling frail, hectic forms to rend and slay; 

Scurfed, dull-toothed Rheums rush by with sullen bay, 
Worrying their victims who resourceless die; 

Beneath their fangs Youth fades and Hope turns gray; 
Through fear of thee men murder, thieve, and lie, 
And the lashed coward wolves grow bold beneath thine 
eye. 

For sure thy . sire was uncouth Chaos old, 

Thy dam, decrepit, blind, primeval Night, 
Who in their pact with Time bequeathed thee Cold, 

Ere they resigned their thriftless, pristine right; 

Who, ere they winged their head-long hell-ward flight, 
Schooled thee for war against the ordered world; 

Leagued their vague terrors to thy breath of blight, 
Cloud, tempest, darkness, — these thy mandate hurled, 
Urged by the Gorgon, Want, with hissing hair uncurled. 

Long as this world its path celestial wears; 
Long as the indenture of gray Time shall run, 



60 ODE TO WINTER 

Thou wield 'st thy sceptre — long as Heaven forbears 
Thou warr'st unceasing with the imperial Sun; 
How oft thy black battalions, one by one, 

Crash 'gainst his bright spears in the Northern sphere! 
How flash thy forked fire-bolts! then the dun, 

Tremendous conflict ceases; far and near 

The Sun's armed hosts advance, thine break, all rout and 
fear. 

Once thy high-turreted, mastless ships of war, 

Like the Norse swarming, menaced every coast; 
They breasted ocean's breadth from shore to shore, 

A deep-keeled, sailless, iridescent host; 

They were thy pride, O Winter, and thy boast; 
Still annual dost thou launch them, towering free 

Above the islands; oft a mountain ghost, 
An icy castle, cools the sun-scorched lea 
Of some careening bark, furrowing the trade-wind sea. 

Thy standards curtained once the Torrid Zone, 

And vexed Enceladus cooled his throat with snow ; 
Across the Alps was reared thy crystal throne; 

Once didst thou chain the Mississippi's flow; 

From coast to coast thy vanguard, blow on blow, 
Spread death through nether Afric's fervid realm; 

Driving before thee bird, beast, man, thy slow, 
Resistless glaciers deep did life o'erwhelm, 
'Till more than Timour's rule stretched round thy sparry 
helm. 

Like to Armadas whelm'd in ocean surge, 

Vast forests sank 'neath seas of leaguering ice; 

Pushing down tropic vales the greening verge, 

Thy snows frothed o'er earth's fruitage, corn and rice; 
No common tribute could such lust suffice; 



ODE TO WINTER 61 

The rocks were ground to dust, the mountain fanes 

Were channelled peak to base; one awful price 
Earth paid thee — an enormity of pains, 
As crept thy torturing frost through her fire-nurtured veins. 

How then lived man? — though fenced with frozen mail 

The soil refused him sustenance, yet his hand 
Drew safety from the maelstrom of thy gale; 

On Earth's last cooling round he took his stand ; 

He found in caves a refuge; armed with brand 
Of wood or stone, he dauntless faced and slew 

The earth-shaking mastodon; to his command 
He trained the fleet-foot reindeer and o'erthrew 
The huge cave-bear that even thy scourge could not subdue. 

Thus age still rolled on age, — then through dun skies 

The buckler'd Sun sprang armed in aureate might; 
His flashing javelins gained the desperate prize; 

Back to the Poles thy chariots wheeled in flight ; 

There, and upon the hoariest mountains' height, 
Thine outposts o'er the world — eternal sway 

Thou holdest with brawn hand and ancient right, 
Pavilioned vast with glaciers, icebergs gray, 
Thronged round with winds thy hest drives world-wide 
day by day. 

Ay, when the modern Caesar's fated power 

Rose black with portent twixt the earth and sun, 

Enshrouding continents, in his amplest hour 

Thou met'st him, breath'dst against him, and undone 
He fled, disarmed, dismayed; his empire won 

Through blood and flame lay prostrate; ne'er again, 
Answering thy voice, forth roared the Gallic gun; 

Thy winds still boast those vaunting myriads slain, 

Sepulchred 'neath thy snows from Moscow to the Seine. 



62 DDE TO WINTER 

Thus thy revenge grows rooted, still more high 

Around the Poles thou rear'st thy crystal wall; 
Still, age on age, repulsed, compelled to fly, 

Thy cohorts sweep to their wide carnival; 

Still, one by one, the warm, bright barriers fall; 
Persistent siege, insidious attack, 

Spread slowly, surely thy perennial thrall, 
Winning by piecemeal thy dominion back, 
Till Time treads out his torch, Death dies and all is wrack. 

Ay, when on cool, clear eves, athwart the dome 
Flare white thy torches, and the maiden moon 

Is hooped with silver, 'tis thy coming home 
O Conqueror! were our earthly ears in tune 
Well might we hear thy minstrels' triumph rune 

Filtering its cadence through the dusky sky; 
For be it gray December or green June, 

Somewhere victorious thy dark standards fly, 

Somewhere the Sun hath failed, somewhere his subjects die. 

Yet, O proud Winter, despot though thou art, 

And unreprieving thy imperious will, 
Thy sumptuous grace reveals a royal heart, 

What time thou smil'st the earth is beauteous still; 

Thou deck'st with pearl and ermine tree and hill, 
And rob'st with light-wreathed down the naked vales, 

Bright pendants hang'st to archway, eave, and sill, 
While blush fair cheeks beneath thy bussing gales 
As at the Sun's first kiss are tinged the wind-filled sails. 

And Nature, vanquished, triumphs, too, through thee. 

By thee is her progressive year made sure; 
But for her harsh arrest, how many a tree 

And flowering shrub would bloom not nor endure; 

Safe in their roots the thrifty saps procure 



ODE TO WINTER 63 

From Mother Earth their rife, reviving powers; 

Then when fair Spring holds out her shining lure, 
Up gush the life-streams and rejoice in flowers, 
While all the unshackled brooks swing laughing through 
the bowers. 

Thou, too, art Lord of Revels — jocund thou 

In the grave North at gracious Christmas time; 
For the bright holly twines thy rugged brow, 

And Mirth and Song leap round thy beard of rime. 

Then the gay dance, chime-born, when in her prime 
Heaven's wreath of diamonds frets the crest of Night, 

Whilst the board, heaped from many a summer clime 
And from bronzed Autumn's horn, with crystal bright 
And lordly silver crowned, shines in the hearth-fire light. 

Such are thy charms, O Winter! joys robust, 

Varied, illustrious; — mirthful, too, thy sway; 
If earth yields naught for thee, not thine the dust, 

The taint defiling the mild season's day. 

Thine is the silvery trilling of the sleigh, 
The steel-shod skater's zest, the daring slide, 

The schoolboy's snowball battle, blithesome play! 
Where'er thou reign'st free flows the festal tide, 
'Till to one blithe accord thou bind'st the harvest side. 

E'en when thou comest in thunders and in glooms, 

(Like Attila, bursting on corrupted Rome) ; 
Blustering above thy three fair rivals' tombs, 

Even then thou furtherest the pure joys of home; 

Beneath peaked cottage roof, arched palace dome, 
How glide in fireside cheer thy riotous hours ! 

The genial game, the wise or witty tome, 
Beguile the heart as in the month of flowers, 
Making new Edens bloom amongst thy snows and showers. 



64 ODE TO WINTER 

And she, my mother land, Queen of the North, 

Heir to the Viking heart, the Briton fame; 
Midst the sea-bridlers youngest, yet the fourth, 

Unfurling round three ocean shores her claim; 

Binding about her brows the Maple flame; 
Holding from thee the new North World in fee; 

Unsullied by the blood-drenched Af ric shame ; t 
Resourceful as the circumambient sea; 
Firm as her granite hills, staunch as her bannered tree, — 

She gains from thee the deep-blue of her skies; 

She breeds by thee her sons of stalwart mould; 
She breathes thru thee a faith that never dies; 

She draws her chasteness from thy storms and cold ; 

Along her future blessings manifold 
Impend, if to herself she hold but true; 

May she, like thee, still dwell unbribed and bold, 
And bear her steps still upward, while the dew 
Of Peace shall pearl her path 'and Honor's star lead true. 

Nor comes the forceful brain, the tireless hand 

From the enervate realms beneath the Line; 
There, flower-enchained, the soul can ne'er expand, 

Divorced from care, it sinks in sloth supine ; 

The voice that fathers pregnant thought is thine; 
The heroic virtues all are nursed by thee; 

Thy tones to man are prophecy, like wine 
Is thy keen, urgent spirit; like the sea 
Thy winds upbear his soul, thy breath is Liberty! 

Thy breath is Empire, — from fierce frost and storm 
The lion-loined, the bane of Romans, came; 

No power on earth could thwart them, swarm on swarm, 
They purged the world with massacre and flame; 
Before the blast of Thor's and Odin's name, 



ODE TO WINTER 65 

The sensual southern gods abhorred their shrines; 

Since then the North has bulwarked Christ from blame; 
Where'er the Northman rules there justice shines, 
There Civilization grows, broad-based, on ordered lines. 

Victorious o'er crude matter, — space and time 

Robbed of their secrets, — still man's tireless brain, 
All grasping, ventures on its quest sublime, 

Still leads a longer strong-armed vassal train; 

Still surer mastery o'er them doth obtain; 
These giants in harness, those mysterious powers, 

Like the thralled genii of the Orient main, 
Toil for him through life's waking, sleeping hours, 
And crown Time's centuried march with incense, gems, and 
flowers. 

Yes, to thy trackless wastes this marvellous man, — 

Even to thy citadels of ice and snow, — 
Following that spirit born of these, doth plan 

Constant through Death's most private haunts to go; 

No terrors, toils may daunt him, — arctic floe, 
Storm, cold, night, famine edge the tough emprise; 

From cape to cape, from mount to mount, the slow 
Receding Pole, still spectral, charms his eyes; — 
Thus, starved, benumbed, outworn, he follows Hope and 
dies. 

Yet there he penetrates — even to that place 

Most private to thy rule his march hath gone; 
Even in the numbing terror of thy face, 

Where Night her veil a hundred days has drawn; 

Favored by fortune, yet of chance the pawn, 
His daring foot is set upon thy throne; 

Lo, there he stands, his face turned to the dawn; 
To hunger, toil and cold unmoved as stone, 
So that his unmatched pride may claim thy realm his own. 



66 ODE TO WINTER 

Yet he, even he, were but for thee a child, 
Passing in dreamless sloth life's choicest year; 

Driven by vague impulse, passions rude and wild, 
He drew no benison from the purer sphere; — 
He breathed no air of truth; no limpid tear 

Of feeling made the flowers of pity start; 
Beheld no beauty; all untuned his ear 

To music of the birds; his own crude heart 

Was to itself a fear, yet conscience owned no smart. 

His craft was that of beasts; — to hunt, waylay 

His food and dig rough shelter from the storm; — 
He praised no God; the body's lusts, the fray 

Nursed the chief arts that could his mind inform; 

He knew few social virtues; like a swarm 
Of insects grew man's congregated dust, 

Without coherence, amity, or form; 
From brutish birth to brutal death a rust 
Clave to his darkened soul, an all-corroding crust. 

Thou didst arouse him, Father of the North ! 

Thou nerved'st his heart-strings in the great Ice Age; 
Drew'st tense his listless sinews, goad'st him forth 

At first, for naught but rapine, war to wage 

On palsied, blighted races; now the sage 
Councils of Time have trained his hand to peace; 

The victories he now writes on History's page 
Yield grander Iliads; all the art of Greece 
Revived, refined, and grasped the hundredth Golden Fleece. 

Therefore, reign thou, most honored! for thy worth 
Doth far thy surliest vassals' wraths outweigh; 

For whilst thy white confusions blanch the earth 
Thou lay'st foundations for an ampler day, — 
Thou sowest to richer futures; still life's May 



ODE TO WINTER 67 

Blooms with the foresights thou hast taught to man; 

For by thy rigor forced to war for sway, 
He forms his own soul on thy strenuous plan 
And builds a deathless fame in one brief mortal span! 



DIANA AND ENDYMION 

ENDYMION had wandered all day long 
Within the embrasured shadow of the woods, 
Lured by a dream of loveliness and hope 
And joyance, such as comes but once to spirits 
Of earth, and seldom to the gods above. 
He hungered not, for the warm pulse of youth 
Fluttered his eyelids, beat about his brain 
With visions blissful, rapt; for all his soul 
Vibrated, pinioned by the breath of June, 
Blown thru the cedarn alleys, and the burden 
Of swaying pine-tops melted thru his mood, 
Like incense midst a pure impassioned prayer, 
Till the deep diapason of the boughs 
Rhythmed the pulse of languorous delight 
With wordless chords of song. He came at eve 
Upon the woodland fringe, when camping Day 
Had set his crimson standard in the West, 
And driven his golden-maned steeds a-field 
For pasture ere the morrow; o'er the heath 
The opposing gradual shades of evening fell 
In folds like wings of sleep, and the mild dews 
Of Latmos, steeped in odors, filtered down 
Thru the dim breathless air and touched his brow 
With balm-anointing coolness; — o'er the vales 
Faintly the low of home-returning kine 
Rose with a hollow murmur, like the pipe 
Of Pan himself, and swathed the pulseless eve 
With a soft film of sound; — the purple shades 
Deepened to bluish jet, and one by one 



DIANA AND ENDYMION 69 

The sentinels of Heaven in glistering arms 
Moved midst the tented night, to each his stand, 
And panoplied with light the involved skies 
And the still, breathing earth; — nor yet the Morn 
Had journeyed forth, but in her house of clouds 
Lingered awhile, as loth to shame the stars 
With her full aureate beam. 

Endymion drew 
His leopard skin around his graceful loins 
And leaned against a tree whose blossoms pale 
Broke foam-like o'er his head, and breathed their love 
Into the silent night; — the languid eve 
Pressed its nepenthe deep within his soul, 
Soothing with cool caress; his eyelids fell 
And his breast heaved with weariness; all cloyed 
With drowsy sweets he sank upon the sward, 
Arm-pillowed, dreamless in the pale starlight. 
But soon the curved moon from her cloud sphere 
Outbroke and turned her calm and tender gaze 
Upon the limp form of the Arcadian youth, 
Bathing with lucent glow his olive face 
And russet burnished limbs; — her nether horn 
Hung like an argent sickle, and from its tip 
A silvery gleam fell o'er the dusk-bound earth, 
Banding the height with lustre to the feet 
Of slumber-wrapped Endymion; — down its coil 
A radiant goddess slipped with arms outspread, 
White as the drift of Heaven; on her arched brow 
The moon had fixed her image, and her breast 
Shone brighter than Orion's belt with gems, 
That burned the dusk to splendor; at her back 
A sheaf of silver arrows crossed a bow, 
The red hart's lordly tine; in her right hand 
She bore an ash- tree javelin tipped with steel, 
Which sooty Vulcan tempered diamond hard 
On Lemnos long agone; her beach-brown hair 



70 DIANA AND ENDYMION 

Was coiled, save one long curl that 'gainst her throat. 

Her throat of matchless alabaster, swirled, 

Clung, as she dawned on Earth and to the side 

Of the still youth with printless tread she drew. 

The splendor of her beauty waked the birds 

And tuned the slender life amidst the grass 

To tenfold chorus, as with buskined feet, 

Brushing the harebell blossoms, her proud lips 

Curved to a smile of wonder and delight, 

She drank the charm of the transcendent youth. 

She stooped, then paused, a goddess bashful grown; 

She paused, then stooped; her face with blushes flamed 

That turned the flowers to rose; she bent her down 

And lightly touched his lips, then thru his hair 

Of clustering hyacinth she amorous swept 

The glory of her hand. 

He waked not yet, 
Although his heart was stirred with dreams divine, 
With beatific visions, as the chrism 
Of more than mortal love enswathed his soul. 
Then as the sleeper stirred she hovered there 
Close to his face and breathed his smothered sigh 
Of warmth-fed passion, as the youthful blood 
Coursed nimbly thru the alleys of his brain 
And fed voluptuously the uncharted mind 
With rapt, aspiring dream. She smiled, she sighed; 
Her breast with longing heaved, counting the cost, — 
The commune of the gods, the praise of men, 
Worship of virgins, her Ephesian shrine, 
And all the glories of her name and state. 
Fate held the golden scales — a mortal love 
Against a heavenly crown; a span of bliss 
Against an immortality of cold 
And splendid power; then again she gazed 
Upon the sleeping youth; till yearning swayed 
Her pulsing soul, far thrusting back her vow, 



DIANA AND ENDYMION 71 

Her oath of godhead; musing, half-inclined 
To veil her deity in a mortal frame, 
And clothe her splendor with the common garb 
Of human uses and the ways of men. 
But even then the intrusive morning broke 
Gray-filmed between the porches of the East; 
And looking forth she marked a scarlet shaft 
Of sunrise break upon the throned crest 
Of far Olympus, canopied with clouds, 
The home of prescience and power where dwell 
The starry gods who guide the fates of men; 
Then turned and still with backward-looking eyes. 
She floated forth across the Latmian height, 
Urging ethereal passage toward the Mount, 
And burned a rival splendor 'gainst the dawn 
Above the pathless and unstable sea. 



DEFORMED 

LEAVE wide the window — let the new-born Spring 
Enfold me ere I die with her warm breath ! 
Die, did I say? I but cast off this thing 

Hate calls its body. Claim thy tribute, Death! 
Men have belied thy terrors; thou'rt to me 
Deliverer; come, proud king, and make me free! 

Yes, I thy lover, Death, have wooed thee long, 
For Life hath crossed me with its foulest spite; 

Life hath debased me, tricked me, turned me wrong; 
Set me a mock in Earth's and Heaven's sight. 

Life? I have never lived! In this brief span 

I but have shared his agony with man. 

Nought else? Ah, yes, these flowers! Their beauty fills 
My soul with ravishment, whose hope is proof 

Against this loathed flesh, these wasting ills; 
God gave me love — it is my sole behoof: 

I love the flowers! I love this sweet spring day, 

And you, dear friend, you I will love for aye! 

No coldness froze me in your steadfast eye; 

Your heart was always to compassion true; 
You only did not curse me, pass me by; 

Alone of all mankind I have but you; 
I have been twice redeemed; not once sufficed 
For me, you are my nearer, second Christ! 

72 



DEFORMED 73 

Yes, hell was mine, an earthly hell of shame; 

The vilest outcasts drove me from their sight; 
Their scorn and hatred seared me like a flame; 

Women and babes fled from me in affright; 
Never since matter germed, since earth was green, 
Was such a vile misshapen monster seen! 

Yet I was born with human mind and heart; — 
Ah, why should God have left this mark on me! 

Yes, I can weep — look how the tear-drops start 
As limpid as from eyes of infancy! 

The temple ways are foul, but its pure shrine 

Is silver and holds consecrated wine. 



'Tis said in His own image God made man, 
But only sin's foul shape was shown in me; 

Some wickedness, first born when time began, 
Resisting goodness and regeneracy, 

Heaped high its growing horrors on my head, 

And for God's beauty fiend-form gave instead. 

I walked the earth an alien! even the birds 
Twitted me with deformity — the broad sun 

Laughed at my plight — day stared at me — men's words 
Flicked at me serpent-like — their eyes to shun 

Dwelt on me still detesting — God and man 

And pitiless nature laid me under ban. 

Yet have I read of pure and tender joys; 

And covertly, like Satan upon Eve, 
Besieged by all the yearning life annoys, 

I gazed at beauty, still constrained to weave 
Among sad thoughts the unavailing tears 
Of hopeless, homeless, loveless, blighted years. 



74 DEFORMED 

Affection, which hath fostered every life, 

Spurned me and changed her sweet breast-milk to gall; 
The whole world's hate fell o'er me; all its strife, 

Was how to break my spirit. Sad as Saul 
When Israel's heart turned from him, I began 
To live, to grow, in soul, at least, a man. 

A curse far heavier than the curse of Cain, 

Or him, who cries "unclean!" fell on my brow; 

I heard the angels o'er my plight complain, 
Around me fiendish shapes did mop and mow; 

While leering faces cast a ghostly spell 

Across the path that lured me down to hell. 

They sold me like a chattel, hissed and jeered; 

They thrust me forth before the vulgar crowd; 
Their laughter tortured me; my soul was seared 

By their low horror ; and my spirit bowed 
Almost to breaking 'neath that cross of scorn 
To which my human heritage was born. 

Even the frightful freaks I dwelt among, 

Avoided contact, shuddered, turned away, 
Or cursed me; hourly by their insults stung 

I cursed myself and cursed the light of day. 
And as the thing I called my head I bent, 
I felt the fearful laughter thrill the tent. 

And then the barker with a fiendish leer, 

Stood up and poured the vitriol of his tongue 

Around me, raising in their throats a jeer, 

Which like the flame of Tartarus scorched and stung; 

Till all the earth was torment, and I trod 

The bitter wine-press of the wrath of God. 



DEFORMED 75 

Then in a maze I saw you mount the boards; 

I watched the anger quiver in your eye; 
Like to the money-changers whipped with cords, 

From your just rage I watched the barker fly; 
Next with your Christ-like arm you cleared a space, 
Among the throng, and with me left the place. 

Then to my hideous grave of life there came 

One ray of comfort, first of all my days; 
One heavenly word of kindness in His Name, 

Who taught us Love ; a word beyond all praise ; 
That word was brother — your hand sought for mine, 
You bathed my heart with sympathy divine. 

I looked — but in your eyes I failed to see 

Aversion, lurking like a coiled snake; 
The balm of pitying cheer was there for me; 

The angel, Hope, in your blessed accents spake; 
These books, these pictures, flowers, are all from you, 
Oh, rarer heart than woman's, kind and true! 

Yes, you have earned the love I had bestowed 
Upon some woman in life's happier state; 

The love to unborn children I have owed, 
The love that in all hearts outlasteth fate; 

On every path of life a spring of God, 

Waiting the stroke of Faith's divining rod. 



Here in this chamber, closed from eyes of men, 
I have worn out the remnant of my years 

In peace if not in happiness; and when 

This lies in death, I will rise midst my peers, 

The spirits gone before; I then must be 

In the new body — oh, what ecstasy! 



76 DEFORMED 

Yes, Death and I are friends! I never knew 
Life's dread of* him, and now my sole regret 

Is leaving you, dear friend, for in that new 
And better world there will not one be met, 

Except it be Christ's self, to whom this heart 

Will yearn as then for yours — but here we part! 

Once more your hand ! ah, friend, the love I bear, 
Would that it might ennoble this vile form; 

Then might you see my soul, its visage fair 

Rainbowed from out this passing cloud and storm, 

Irradiating Life. Ah, Beauty, Love, 

I shall behold you perfect there above! 

The unclothed beauty of the soul that grows 

Sublimer as the effluence of that life 
Which is the sun indeed! which ever flows 

Across the warring clouds of human strife, 
And gendering all the glory of the years 
Breaks into starry splendor on the spheres. 

The beauty, strength and symmetry here sighed 

In vain for, as I sighed for that of flesh; 
The manhood purged by suffering, glorified 

In the new larger life we live afresh; 
The favor of God's smile, the love of Christ; 
Brother — 'twas His the word; dear friend — the tryst! 



THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 

(A Parable) 

A SEED of truth, now far renowned, 
A poet in his garden found ; 
Yet whence it came or how it grew 
Or what its worth he scarcely knew; 
He planted it; with tender thought, 
The germ was to unfolding brought. 
He nourished it with deftest skill 
And placed it on his window sill; 
A world of patient care, in sooth, 
He lavished on that new-born Truth. 

Enamored of its thrifty grace, 

He stood it in the market-place, 

And hourly to the crowd would cry, 

"My precious Truth, who'll buy! who'll buy!" 

He sang its praises late and soon 

In lyrics of all kinds of tune; 

Yet tho it shot forth green and fair, 

And spread its leaves to sun and air, 

Burgher and matron, maid and youth, 

Laughed at the poet and his Truth. 

A scientist in cap and gown, 
First marked it with a hostile frown; 
A pedant, steeped in dreams of age, 
Fogged in his mythologic page, 
Declared it but a weed, he saw 
77 



78 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 

'Twas clear against time-honored law; 
For plants of such a strange degree 
He could not find authority; 
He deemed it but a thing uncouth; 
"It never, never could be Truth." 

A pompous theologue drew near 

And smiled, "Good sir, what have we here? 

'Tis worthless, friend; you should devote 

Your care to matters less remote. 

Certainly God did not intend 

This unknown weed to work His end. 

A thousand seedlings comelier far 

I'll lend you from my dogma jar. 

You surely cannot mean, forsooth, 

To call this wretched wild thing, Truth." 

A politician sidled up 

And sneered, "You drain a bitter cup. 

Who'll buy ? Not all the fiends in Hell 

Nor saints in Heaven; you'd better sell 

Odes to the hero of the time; 

He's useful, if much less sublime. 

You swear you've grown it? Well, suppose 

You have — will't bring you bread and clothes? 

From Pilate down," he chuckled, "youth, 

We're all at sea about the Truth." 

One day a philosophic wight 
Fingered it, gauged its spread and height; 
He measured down and round about, 
Yet what it was still held in doubt. 
'Twas in bad way — 'twould soon be dead; 
He snorted, squinted, shook his head: 
>"A dreamer's whim as one may see; 
What, this thing bourgeon to a tree! 



THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 79 

'Twill ne'er abide Time's gnawing tooth; 
It never, never can be Truth." 

So all men on it gazed askance, 

Or gave it scorn or passing glance; 

They tossed their heads, they pursed their lips, 

They would not take the proffered slips. 

The owner shouted all day long, 

"Who'll buy — 'tis surely worth a song!" 

But tho it wrung the poet's heart 

To sue the mammon-greedy mart, 

They would not give him heed nor ruth, 

They would not buy his novel Truth. 

Time passed — the world-wrecked poet died; 

The plant his loving hand supplied 

With tendance slowly pined away, 

Nor longer bloomed in face of day; 

Blossom and leafage, all forgot, 

Lay shrunk within the earthen pot. 

Men marked its brown and cheerless hue: 

"Look what the crazy poet grew! 

Pity the fool outlived his youth, 

He fondly called this changeling 'Truth.' " 

And now the plant which had beguiled 
The poet, passed unto a child, 
A weak-eyed offspring, who, purblind 
When manhood came, forgot to mind 
The precious flower, and anyone 
Who cared might place it in the sun. 
"I have so much, so much to do; 
My father valued it? — most true." 
He blinked, then gave a yawn uncouth; 
"I have no time to air his Truth." 



80 THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 

At length a stranger hurrying by, 
Chanced the neglected plant to spy. 
He halted, gazed, then asked the price, 
And straight he owned it in a trice. 
He watered it with constant care, 
He gave it wealth of sun and air, 
When, lo, around its withered heart 
New tender sprouts began to start; 
They leaved, they wove a verdant booth, — 
The poet's wonder-working Truth! 

And now folk asked in stark surprise 
Whence came this plant of giant size. 
They wondered much to see it spread; 
Then fell to praising it instead. 
The theologue, with mouth agape, 
All speechless, watched it taking shape; 
The man of science wrote a book 
Upon it; pedants stopped to look 
With reverence, and the man of sooth, 
The philosoph, adored the Truth. 

The politician stared, and then 
Took off his hat and cried, "Amen! 
We've grown it; I foresaw it all, 
'Tis plain as apples in the Fall: 
The man was cannier than we knew; 
I also had this long in view." 
But all, unknowing whence it came, 
Thronged to the owner for its name; 
"What's this?" they cried, "is this forsooth 
What that daft rhymer called the Truth?" 

"You would not take the poet's word," 
He answered, "tho 'twas daily heard; 
Like mine, your prescience might have known 



THE EVER-GROWING TRUTH 



81 



These bravely struggling leaves half-grown, 

And owned, had you but eyes to see, 

These blossoms for futurity. 

The man you mocked heartbroken died; 

The plant you scorned is now your pride; 

Supreme beyond neglect or ruth, 

Behold the never-dying Truth!" 






EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 

WHAT, killed! O God! who said so? it is false! 
I'll not believe it ! 'tis an arrant lie 
Forged by an enemy! Tears! then it's true, 
True or I would not weep ! I shall go mad 
Crushed by this load of woe ! My son, my son ! 
Bless'd God, couldst thou not find a sacrifice 
Some other than my lamb, my only one? 
Were there not gallant hearts enow to bleed 
That have no mothers ? — None but only him 
On whom the hopes of millions lived and thrived? 
Art thou all sternness, that couldst take his life, 
So hopeful, fresh and loving, full of joy, 
And leave me desolate? — Oh, it cannot be! 
Men call thee merciful, and mercy loves 
To guard young tender life, not to crush quite 
The lonely longing heart, the yearning hope, 
The hope of years, long, long and painful years; — 
Oh Heaven, I rave, I rave, stern judging Heaven! 
I never, oh, I never more shall see 
Him whom I once called Louis, never lay 
My hand upon his brow and bid him live 
The coming glory, life and light of France. 
Ah, woe is me! for I have outlived hope, 
Husband and throne and country, and my child ! 
Strike now, thou grinning Death, and join again 
Them thou hast parted ! give me back my boy ! 
Or that this agonizing grief might bring 
Madness upon my soul! but yet not so — 
For then, perchance, I'd lose all memory 

82 



EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 83 

Of my poor stricken love; — no, better live 
And weep from day to day salt drops of sorrow 
And drown my grief in tears, feeding their flow 
Upon remembrances of my dear boy, 
Nipped by the fierce frost in his morn of May. 

my son, my son! 

Had I been near to hear thy dying lips 
Falter the name of Mother — to exchange 
One parting look — to stanch thy piteous wounds — 
To watch the flicker of thy fleeting breath; — 
How soft I would have pressed thee to my breast 
Where once thou lay, my child, a smiling babe — 
And soothed thy passing moments, and have wiped 
The death-dew from thy brow — but thou art gone — 
And I no more shall see thee, my lost boy! 
My one, my Joseph! oh, my light, my all! 

1 cannot think, my child, that thou art dead, 
And that corruption and the grave shall mar 
Thy delicate flesh — thou wert too young to die; 
Youth bloomed, hope brightened in thy speaking glance, 
And how I loved to trace with mother's pride 

The lineaments the partial hand of Time 
Was graving on thy brow, kinglike and fair. 
Ah, little thought I, child, when thou didst belt 
England's bright sword of battle on thy side 
And with thy radiant smile didst raise my hopes 
With words of loving cheer, that I no more 
Would hear the merry music of thy voice 
Beguile my weary hours from vain regrets; 
No more would feel thy warm breath on my cheek, 
The light clasp of thine arm, as with flushed brow 
And kindling eye, thou saidst, "Ma mere, adieu! 
I go to make me worthy thee and France 
And crown my brows with honor, that the world 
May know thy son is equal to his name 



84 EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 

And to his former fortunes — happy if he 

May thread with glory the dark web of fate. 

His star shall lead thy Louis up to fame, 

France, and an empire ; never yet hath failed 

The great hope of our race — good bye, good bye! 

God keep thee!" and thou leftst me with that word. 

Yes, then thou leftst me, leftst me here alone. 

Alone! was I alone? No, while thou livedst 

My spirit went forth with thee, as in dreams, 

Watched o'er thee oft on shipboard or in camp, 

Walked with thee up and down, joined in thy prayer, 

Ay, poured out for thee litanies of love. 

I'd muse away whole hours upon a guess 

Of how thou'dst be employed, and how thou'dst shine 

Upon the field of battle, and would pray 

The God of hosts to keep my boy from harm, 

Till prayer begat assurance — Oh, fond fool! 

To trust the promptings of a mother's heart 

And hope to buy thy safety with her prayers. 

Oh, thou wert winged for glory, Icarus, 

But flew too near its sun! Now art thou gone, 

And now am I alone! Oh, I am cold! 

The night-wind gives a moan that thou art dead, 

The night-bird tells it to her lonely mate; 

This eve the Sun, fainting within the west, 

Cast on his bed of clouds a bloody stain, 

Yet shall he rise and smile, freshed with new life — 

But thou, my Light, my Sun, dyeing the fields 

Of far-off Africa with thy young life 

Let out by savage hands, — remorseless hearts 

That held no pity for thy tender youth, 

Thy life-blood streaming on their cruel spears — 

No more shall come to greet me with thy smile. 

I am alone, alone amidst a world 

Of moving bodies, careless, mocking forms 

That taunt me with their life thy bloody death. 



EUGENIE ON THE DEATH OF HER SON 85 

I have no more to live for and the grave 
Yawns wide its dreary portal; — come, kind Death! 
Snap the last cord that binds me to this earth 
That I may seek my lost one through the skies; — 
I have no other hope — I am alone! 



RESURGAM 

"Old things need not be therefore true 
O brother men, nor yet the new ; 
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, 
And yet consider it again!" 

SO wrote the rhymer of a vanished day 
And we, the Present's children in our play 
At circumstance, abiding calm and sane, 
Should take this home — consider it again! 

The passing hour — the horologe of Time 
Rounds forth the cycle of a change sublime; 
Old institutions tottering to their fall, 
And a new writing on tradition's wall. 
Progress plays life 'gainst death — the setting sun 
Brings with new hopes and fears fresh tasks begun, 
New to last year or yesterday, and change, 
Growth and decay thru all creation range. 
And yet — and yet — the past is with us still; 
Plan what we may the omnipresent will 
Of past achievement lays its heavy hand 
Upon our souls to warn, to check, command. 
There is no dead past — the germ source, the earth, 
Gives to all sentient life its primal birth; 
Each animal, plant, serviceable sod, 
Lives in and on and of the senseless clod. 
Unresting as earth's tides the social flow 
Beats on Time's shores in waves of joy or woe. 
Creatures of circumstance are we, and yet 
This homely phrase we never should forget, 

86 



RESURGAM 87 

Tho chance at times conspires to prove a lie, 
"God is with him who keeps his powder dry." 

All conscious effort tells, — the amoeba's span 

Marks progress, even as the mind of man. 

And all life's sublimations, all its ills 

Spring from the varied tension of our wills. 

This we may say — there dwells essential might 

That makes for God, in other phrase, the Right; 

In spite of foil and of recurrent flow 

The tides of being swell and higher go. 

As various as the leaves of forest trees, 

As shapes of rock or cloud, as flight of bees 

Or birds or butterflies, the human soul 

Differs within the round of its control. 

Humanity, that particolored veil 

Of the Almighty whose pure beams assail 

The universe, changes with every cloud 

Of custom twixt the cradle and the shroud. 

And with this change comes strife; — Existence first 

Claims tribute of our nature as of erst, — 

To gain whate'er one can, — the primal law 

That doth all life within its meshes draw. 

And next the spirit of Beauty, struggling thru 

The inert past, the chaos of the new, 

Wearing upon its crest world maidenhood, 

Unfolding in its utmost sense the Good. 

And last, the chrism of Love, supreme control 

Of life made perfect in the human soul, 

Forsaking self and passing hand to hand 

The torch of Happiness thru a darkened land. 

Yet Love, as said the ancient world, is blind: 

Tho true its instincts, none the less has Mind 

Sentence and rule of every living thing, 

And out of Mind Justice and Order spring. 

And out of Order, Justice grows the State, 



88 RESURGAM 

Borrowing the curule chair and robes of Fate, 

And high above the throne of State, the rood 

Blood-drenched and scarred of Human Brotherhood. 

Out of this concord currents flow of thought, 

Muddy, clear welling, ill or wisely taught, 

A reaching out for something unfulfilled, 

By knowledge chastened, by doubt checked or chilled. 

Philosophy, Religion, Science, Art, , 

These sway the soul in absolute or part, 

The four main props of life, and built on these 

The thousand tiers of life's utilities. 

From savage up to seer, the soul's unrest 

Is constant, striving still to be expressed 

In some rude idol moulded, carved by hand, 

Or thoughts that to the zenith star expand. 

Like tides that sweep upon some rock-bound shore 

These waves of soul-endeavor evermore 

Beat on the shores of Time; their constant play 

Sweep round the headlands of the stormed to-day. 

The social systems, present, past, to come, 
The monarch's trumpet, the republic's drum, 
The poet's vision, the idealist's plan, 
The Happy Valley, the millennial man, 
And all the varied shibboleths proved in vain, 
Voiced by the restless record of the brain, 
Fast as the pictured films incessant flow, 
While life moves on with never-ending show. 

Lo, Anarchy, an ideal, crudely wrought, 
Unchartered by historic fact or thought, 
Bearing within itself the seeds of death, 
Denying force, yet force its living breath, 
Cursing the nations and by them accursed, 
Destruction of the state its last and first, 



RESURGAM 89 

Best advertised of economic pills, 
The panacea for all social ills! 

A stricter theory, a preciser scope, 

Rule grown supreme, the Socialistic hope, 

Antithesis of Anarchy, to bind 

In law's straight shackles variant mankind; 

At hearth and field and mart one pulseless plan 

To free the aspiring, restless heart of man; 

To lift the curse from poverty and play 

Jove to the trivial habit of the day; 

To shove each king and magnate from his throne 

Yet place thereon an idol hard as stone, 

And under guise of setting genius free 

Fettering it thru combined utility; 

Man's flowering thought, a formal potted theme; — 

This forms the rainbow of an airy dream. 

Ah, could such dream dawn true! if Heaven's white dove 

Of peace could bind the peoples all in love, 

With chains of flowers, or might man and man 

Bridge heart to heart, nor Hell have power to ban, 

The true Christ then were come, no god-head birth, 

But a new human day-spring o'er the earth. 

If such the consecration — if the mind 

Of Heaven might clothe and expedite mankind, 

Moulding the world one kinship, fit to climb 

The laurelled heights of self-obscured time, 

Not vain Love's martyrs braved the toil and shock, 

Nor Sidney's blood flowed fruitless on the block, 

Nor all the seers who wizard armor forge 

From Socrates to Kant and Henry George 

To fight the dragon, Error, would be found 

Vain charging down the wind; nor would be drowned 

In the world discord of the new and last 

The mighty poets, answering blast for blast, 



go RESURGAM 

The trumpet tongues of the ages, who aye strove 

To show that love was beauty, beauty love; 

The symmetry and concord of the soul, 

All life and light, with systems as they roll 

In one harmonious diapason — sod, 

Tree, flower, fish, reptile, bird, beast, man, to God! 



IN THE GLOAMING 



WE sat upon the rough sea shore, 
My plighted love and I; 
The heavens with clouds were tented o'er, 
No star upheld the sky; 
Yet was the ether strewn with light 
And sweet the air and mild, 
While the slow waters to the night 
Crooned like a sleepy child 



II 



When lulled upon its mother's knee; 

And from the fragrant earth, 

Around us on the shadowed lea, 

A million trills had birth, 

Which tinily did interfuse 

And to the heavens upburn, 

While downward Night her dusks and dews 

Poured from her poppied urn. 



Ill 



Silent and still we sat; her cheek 
Pressed mine, — i' the other's arms 
Each folded; rythmically did speak 
The beached waves' low alarms; 
9i 



92 IN THE GLOAMING 

The refluent wave which aye assailed 
The pebbles beneath our feet ; — 
Over us, amethystine veiled, 
Night bended down to greet 



IV 



The breathing earth with still embrace; 
The brooding, thrilled delight, 
The living lushness and the grace 
Of warm midsummer night. 
And so our souls fell into chime 
With earth and sky and sea; 
So did our sentient summertime 
Melt in mute ecstasy. 



And then she spoke, — her words came low 
As the soft-lapping tide; 
Fervent as Evening's pulsing glow, 
My sweet-voiced, sea-born bride; 
High words of love and light as pure 
And kind as Heaven's own dew; 
Words that shall comfort and endure 
My last life journey thru. 



VI 



And while we lingered paled the light, 
Dusk's curtains were drawn down; 
Passed o'er the placid wave the Night, 
And o'er the dreaming down 



IN THE GLOAMING 93 

Her sables moved; but in that world, 
Our hearts, the light still burned; 
The petals of our souls unfurled, 
And forth to Heaven upturned. 



VII 



And thru our bosoms throbbed the heart 

Of breathing Nature's God; 

One were we with the spheres, a part 

Of star and wave and sod; 

Comrade with eldest yearnings blown 

Thru sentient pipes of Pan, 

To noblest dreams of earth full grown, 

The God-ward tread of Man. 



Viii 

Oh life, oh love, ye are the same 

To souls born free and true! 

Oh pure heart faith, words cannot frame 

What the rapt eye may view! 

Far from earth's dull material sounds 

The still small voice is heard, 

How oft the rude world's discord drowns 

Heaven's sweet star-lighted word! 



CANADIAN THANKSGIVING HYMN 

DOWN all the changes of the years, 
Across earth's mingled joys and tears, 
The stars of endless progress shine; 
The centuries, O Lord, are Thine! 

Thy hand the sovereign gifts of peace 
Bestows with bounteous, rich increase; 
The hearts of nations move to Thee 
As towards the moon the midnight sea. 

The star that rose o'er Morning Land 
Doth now with clearer beam expand; 
Old dreams come true — oh, wondrous spell 
Thy word of love, Emanuel! 

Now Faith, like Noah's wandering dove, 
The drear wide waste of creeds above, 
Bears back unto her refuge ark 
Her token o'er the waters dark. 

But chief of those Thy love hath blest 
Are we, the English of the West; 
With filled and overflowing hands 
The Benjamin of Nations stands. 

O, thanks supreme are due to Thee, 
Who brought us forth across the sea, 
And taught our souls to feel and know; 
Where Truth could build and Freedom grow! 
94 



CANADIAN THANKSGIVING HYMN 95 

Still runs the sturdy Standish strain, — 
Still glows the patriot heart of Vane 
In us, — the old Cromwellian will 
In us is warm and vital still. 

What though the horoscope of fate 
Points out fresh dangers to the state, 
Thy mercies oft our path have crossed, 
Our trust, like Gideon's, was not lost. 

Great cause for many thanks have we, 
A land at peace, a Nation free ; 
From North to South, from East to West, 
Above all nations we are blest. 

Blest in our heritage and increase, — 
Blest both in faction and in peace, — 
Blest more than Israel in her prime, 
This new, this true Hesperian clime. 

With no faint hope for our young land, 
We lay our futures in Thy hand ; 
For blessings past we worship Thee, 
And for Thy bounties yet to be. 

Though fate's dark frown should cloud Thy face, 
Keep for us, Lord, Thy heart of grace ; 
Our lives are Thine; Thy Gospel's ray 
Lights up our new Thanksgiving Day! 



THE HOLLYHOCKS 

SOME space beyond the garden close 
I sauntered down the shadowed lawn; 
It was the hour when sluggards doze, 

The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn. 
The sun had not yet bathed his face, 

Dark reddened from the night's carouse, 
When lo, in festive gypsy grace 

The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. 

They shone full bold and debonair — 

That fine, trim band of frolic blades; 
Their ruffles, pinked and purfled fair, 

Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. 
They whispered light each comrade's ears, 

They flirted with the wooing breeze; 
The grassy army's stanchest spears 

Rose merely to their stalwart knees! 

My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer, 

They were so royal tall to see ; 
No high-placed rivals need they fear, 

All flowers paid them fealty. 
The haughtiest wild rose standing near 

Their girdles hardly might attain; 
They glowed, the courtiers of a year, 

Blithe pages in the Summer's train! 

Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn, 

So jocund and so saucy free; 
Gay vagrants, Flora's bravest born, 

They brightened all the emerald lea. 
96 



THE HOLLYHOCKS 97 

I said: "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost 
Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; 

No evil eye your pride has crossed, 
You know not the designs of night. 

"You have not thought that beauty fades; 

It is in vain you bloom so free; 
While you are flaunting in the glades 

The gale may wreck your wanton glee." 
They shook their silken frills in scorn, 

And to my warning seemed to say, 
"Dull rhymester, look! 'tis summer morn, 

And round us is the court of Day!" 



CALIFORNIA 

BRIDE of the Sun, thou beautiful Queen of the limitless 
West, 
A tiara of glittering snowpeaks o'er thy proud, imperial 

crest ; 
With thy veil of vines and flowers, and eyes of eternal blue, 
From the Occident greeting the Orient, heir of the Old 
and New. 



California crowned with summer, thou fairest of fair two- 
score, 

Great is thy name amid nations, bright marvel of mountain 
and shore; 

With gaze fixed full on the future or lifted to Hope's glad 
skies, 

The stars of a cloudless heaven reflected in thine eyes. 

At thy feet the Ocean casteth his broad and burnished 

shield, 
For thou stretchest a scepter of iron over his wave-strewn 

field ; 
And thy ichor of life takes fire from the glow of thy mighty 

heart, 
As from thy lips of passion the peans of triumph start. 

On thy robes the perfume of roses lingers the live-long 

year, 
And the dream-winds of the ocean make music in thine ear; 

98 



CALIFORNIA 99 

Child-mother, of years most fruitful, whose breasts o'erflow 

with milk, 
The East shall sue for thy favor with spices and gems and 

silk. 



Yet, O thou peerless beauty, tho dowered with Heaven's 

high grace, 
Dream not of a cloudless future — the meed of a faultless 

face; 
For evil hath tainted thy blood, and the petulance of thy 

hand 
May turn a curse upon thee and blast thy bounteous land. 

Rise, rise in strength majestic, young Titaness of the West, 
And forge thyself a cuirass of the gold that adorns thy 

breast ; 
Temper thy sword of justice in Freedom's sacred fire, 
And slay with heart unflinching the dragon of thy desire. 

Smite with the edge of thine ire that dragon of soulless 

greed ; 
So shalt thou leave safeguarded the heritage of thy seed; 
So shall plenty descend like dew and the fair and fruitful 

earth 
Requite with lavish largesse the life that gave thee birth. 

Anoint thy soul with vigil, thou bright-haired matron- 
knight ; 

Win fairly thy crown of honor, bear bravely thy shield in 
flight; 

So Peace may o'er thy conquest her choicest blessing spread, 

And wreathe with the orange blossoms the laurel round thy 
head. 



ioo CALIFORNIA 

Then will thy star resplendent burn on the brow of Morn; 

The Aurora of life new-waking, discarding her robes out- 
worn; 

In the virginal beauty of Truth, mid the nations radiant 
stand, 

The charm of a brighter heaven — the joy of an ampler 
land! 



TO THE POETS 

OH, poets, brothers, though the world, unheeding 
Grudges us all things save its care and pain ; 
Know our probation is the spring-time seeding — 
Our tears the warm and fertilizing rain. 

Make firm your choice! should we be slaves to Mammon, 
To take the flesh pots from his sweaty hand? 

Better Heaven's manna in the land of famine! — 
Better the desert thirst, the lonesome sand! 

Should we forego our ill-paid love and hoping, 
For Wealth's and Power's delirium and fears? 

In recreant, careless sloth should we be dropping 
The soiled rosary of the silver years? 

Ye faithful hearted, what is Pride's indenture 

To those who Heaven and Nature's secrets share? 

We have our Shakespere — he will, peradventure, 
Show us the heights where laurels grow most fair. 

Let us not fail in word, in just ambition; 

Nor solely use the prophet's voice to please ; 
Nor spend the golden thought in cheap attrition 

Of trifling themes and turbid fantasies. 

On, minstrels, — cheer the van, — march uncomplaining! 

Ye are God's favorite children, for we feel 
Perpetual spring within our spirits reigning, 

Though frosts of age may on our locks congeal. 

IOI 



102 TO THE POETS 

Pale watchers for the Light — in the new reaping 
Men shall adore each lambent, deathless name! 

Ye patient ones — a wealth of smiles and weeping 
The world shall pay in homage to your fame ! 

Yes, all the tissued dreams of Fancy's leading, 

The gold-wrought threads of song our rapture wove, 

Are raiment to man's naked human pleading, 
Girded with sacrifice and clasped with love. 



THE SLUMBER 

SHE paled away like some bright flower, 
In Autumn's chill, 
Before the storm unchains its power, 
At winter's will. 

She sleeps — nor all life's fevered dream 

Disturbs her rest, 
As pulseless as the thin moonbeam, 

That lights her breast. 



103 



ONE KIN ARE WE 

WE all are sons of English land, 
From Britain to New Zealand's strand; 
From isles of spice and far Cathay 
To realms of occidental day. 
From shore to shore, from sea to sea, 
Throughout all earth one kin are we! 
One kin, undoubted, faithful, free, 
In our redoubted Liberty! 

We own the wealth of half the world; 
Our sails on every sea unfurled 
Waft treasures priceless and untold; 
Ours are the fabled shores of gold! 
In every land, on every sea, 
On foreign strands, one kin are we! 
One kin, illustrious still to be 
In our industrious Liberty! 

How bright the stars of empire shine 
Above palmetto, oak and pine! 
How the full groves of orange trees 
Are rustling in fair Freedom's breeze! 
Our realms of oceaned industry 
Show to the world one kin are we! 
One kin of blended fame are we, 
Born to one splendid Liberty! 

The Slav, the Teuton, and the Gaul, 
Our strength and splendor dwarfs them all; 
104 



ONE KIN ARE WE 105 

They quarrel o'er their conquered lands — 

Earth groans beneath their armed bands ; 

Aloof in calm supremacy 

We bide, because one kin are we! 

One kin of fearless, proud degree, 

Guarding our peerless Liberty! 

Freedom regains each lost estate 

From out the grudging hold of Fate, 

The peaceful triumphs of her rule, 

Arts, science, law, the church, the school; 

Our patron saint of husbandry 

Is she, because one kin are we! 

One kin — one towering, wide-spread tree, 

With flowering boughs of Liberty! 

Old England's glories bloom o'er earth; 
They bourgeon forth in constant birth! 
The stars that o'er Columbia shine, 
The Pleiads o'er the Canadian pine, 
The Austral cresset blazing free, 
Now light the world; one kin are we! 
One kin, far-famed, of proud degree, 
Led by our star-flamed Liberty! 

The earth's redemption draweth nigh! 
Hark! as the dowerless nations sigh, 
The rush of Freedom's firm set feet 
Resounds down each insurgent street! 
Her banner rolls out broad and free — 
We lead the van! One kin are we! 
One kin — one valorous constancy — 
Yes, one chivalrous Liberty ! 



THE VISION 

>f | ^WAS twilight hour; I sat in darkened mood; 

X "Would that the world would yield me more of good," 
I sadly mused, when, close at my right hand 
My guardian genius seemed to me to stand. 

His face was calm, compassionate, and mild, 

He gazed on me and all so sweetly smiled, 

A paly radiance strayed across the room, 

Like flickering moonbeams through a covert gloom. 

He placed his hand upon my bended head; 
"Look up, my child," in pure, low tones he said; 
I looked, and wonderingly I gazed again, 
The room seemed filled with a triumphal train. 

Each figure in the dim light loomed and shaped, 

Then crossed and vanished where the shades were draped; 

And as they to my gazing passed away, 

My sweet-faced genius low to me did say: 

"These are the phantoms of thy youthful hope, 
They enter not within thy manhood's scope; 
Fair cherished ideals of life's early day, 
Lo, one by one, they slowly fade away. 

"Look thou once more!" again I raised mine eyes; 
There passed a figure clad in splendid guise; 
He eyed me with a shrewd, cold gaze of stealth ; 
"Not thine," the genius said, "his name is Wealth." 

1 06 



THE VISION 107 

A stately presence next did cross me by; 
Proud was his mien and threatening was his eye; 
One short, contemptuous glance he on me cast; 
"This one is Power, and lo, he too has passed!" 

I looked again — a delicate perfume 
Of rose and jasmine wandered through the room; 
There came a maiden all bedeckt with flowers, 
Sweeter than those e'er grown in Flora's bowers. 

Her eyes were lustrous as the stars of night, 
And graceful was her form as sylph of light; 
She held me spell-bound in delicious charm; 
Sweetly she smiled and waved her lily arm. 

Yet passed she on — bewildered and amazed 

I earnestly within the darkness gazed ; 

The genius touched me, "She too doth remove; 

Not thine," he said, "men call this siren, Love." 

I heaved a sigh — with rapt look and profound, 
One slowly came, his head with bays was crowned; 
And fair as is the opening rose of morn, 
A changeful radiance from his form was borne. 

Yet simple was his garb — a glance he turned 
Upon my anxious eyes, that through me burned; 
With eager lips and outstretched hand his name 
I cried aloud, "take all, but leave me Fame!" 

Yet even as I spake he passed away; 
My head in anguish in my hands I lay; 
When a low voice upon the other side 
Said softly, "Grieve not, I with thee abide!" 



108 THE VISION 

I raised mine eyes which vanished hope had seared; 
My calm-faced genius all transformed appeared; 
Celestial radiance all his visage veiled, 
And scars showed where his hands had once been nailed. 

"My child," he said, "the world for thee has nought; 
Wealth, power, and fame are all too dearly bought; 
Even love itself, unsanctified by me, 
Would lure thy soul from higher destiny. 

"Know thou thy good — what hallows mortal life 
Is 'gainst ourselves to wage a conquering strife; 
Learn thou of me thy frailties to subdue, 
And be in all things to thy vision true." 

He ceased, and all his form grew heavenly fair, 
Then slowly faded through the still night air; 
Humbled and awed my spirit inly bowed, 
And as he passed the moon brake through a cloud. 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF FREEDOM 

WHERE'S Freedom's birthplace? it should be 
Some spot of earth most fair to see ! 
What doth she name her natal home? 
Some minster pile? some palace dome? 
In what court, castle, tower or hall, 
Did her first lisping accents fall? 
Not within bannered walls of stone 
Doth Freedom any birthright own! 

No! she was not with life endowed 
Among the mighty and the proud — 
Neither midst kings nor conquerors found, 
Nor lords nor prelates capped and gowned; 
The haughty barons, earls, and peers, 
Oppressed and starved her infant years: 
She hath not there a heritage known, — 
No birthright there may Freedom own! 

Perchance her nascent strength grew then 
Midst demagogues and lawless men? 
Mayhap midst anarchy and crime 
Was nurtured first her youth sublime? 
In realms by selfish faction torn 
Perhaps the radiant maid was born? 
Where such rash tyrants sway the throne 
No heritage can Freedom own! 

It may be, then, in ways of trade 
Her earliest infant footsteps strayed, 
109 



no THE BIRTHPLACE OF FREEDOM 

Where Commerce with her golden chain 

Links shore to shore, joins main to main? 

No! she was poor. No costly bales 

No argosies with swelling sails 

Were hers — for humble, scorned, alone, 

No birthright there could Freedom own! 

No! her first smile she did bestow 
Neither on wealth nor power, nor show; 
But long ago her tender form 
Was rescued from a night of storm. 
From out her peril lifted then 
High in the arms of lowly men, 
A love child, sacred, though unknown, 
Midst them might Freedom heritage own ! 

Lo, proud even of her humble birth 
Are now the great ones of the earth; 
As eager now her court to fill 
As erst their hatred wrought her ill. 
But now, as then, her guardian stands 
The son of toil with hardened hands; 
As when in youth, now fairly grown, 
To him her life doth Freedom own ! 



THE GOLDEN-ROD 

ALONG the bronze-banked roadside as I stray 
What is it braids the front of Autumn day? 
The fields are brown, the wild flowers shrunk in blight, 
Save where this glory trails upon my sight; 
O Golden-Rod! 
'Tis you who greet me as I walk abroad! 

As forth I saunter, sunk in moody dreams, 
Around my path your way-fire pageant gleams; 
While starring all my dusk of musing drear, 
You hold me high your wealth of nodding cheer; 
O Golden-Rod! 
Moving my fancy as along I plod. 

You love by common human paths to dwell; 
Unlike the hermit shrunken to his cell, 
You eye with interest human toil and strife 
Undaunted by the dust of passing life; 
O Golden-Rod ! 
Blooming your brightest on the hardest sod. 

Your free-willed, fearless presence showeth me 
Worth bravely cheerful midst adversity, 
How life may through the current of the' day 
Its bloom of kindly service wear alway; 
O Golden-Rod! 

May manhood blossom like your rude birth-clod! 

in 



ii2 THE GOLDEN-ROD 

Fair yellow jewel, the last in Autumn's crown! 

No selfish tongue should voice your pure renown, 

For without wage you charm the public eye, 

A poet of the thankless, sombre sky! 

O Golden-Rod! 

How many heedless feet have past you trod. 

Dear wayside flower with waving, feathery plume, 
Uncherished still, life's two-fold way illume! 
Your graceful charm thru Autumn's waning date 
Outranks the cultured garden's proud estate; 
O Golden-Rod! 
Lamp of the highway, lit by hand of God ! 



JANUARY 

A WINTER'S day : the landscape veiled in white 
Shimmers within the morning's lucent ray; 
There is no cloud in all of heaven's height; 

There is no leaf nor bird upon the spray; 
The winds alone are wandering, while we 
Warm sheltered sit in low-eaved privacy. 

Gaily the flames leap up the chimney's throat; 

The huge gnarled back-log crackles on the hearth ; 
Hark, how the wheel hums round its cheerful note! 

It is the season of the New Year's birth. 
All nature greets us smiling; ah, may Time 
Spin out our threads to such a sweet-toned chime! 

This life is all our portion; little we 

Know of the strife and passion of the mart; 

The dull round of our quiet cares, the tree, 
The corn and kine make up our peaceful part ; 

The city's pride and longing pass us by; — 

How white the world is and how blue the sky ! 



"3 



THE BARREN FIG-TREE 

A BARREN fig-tree in the vineyard stood. 
The Lord in passing saw its want of good 
And said, to the vine-dresser turning round, 

"Cut this tree down, why cumbereth it the ground?" 

"Behold have I not planted it with care? — 
Hath it not had the rain and sun and air, 

Doth it not fare alike with all of these — 
Why doth it not bring forth like other trees?" 

Then the vine-dresser said with anxious mien, 
"Thy care and keeping, Lord, are fully seen, 

Spare it a little longer tho, I pray, 

For it to Thee may bring forth fruit some day. 

"Lo, now it hath a goodly branch and root; 

It groweth yet too rank for any fruit; 
Its spurious blossoms all are blasted quite; 

I'll prune it, Lord, that it may bloom aright." 

Then said the Lord, "Vine-dresser, great thy care 
Hath been of all my trees, beyond compare ; 

I give the barren fig-tree to thy will; 
The choicest fruit is of redemption still." 



114 



QUESTIONS OF LIFE 

WHAT is Knowledge ? 'Tis the beholding 
The blue through a cloudy strife. 
What is Wisdom? The unfolding 
Of the secret calyx of life. 

What is Life? The daily Postman's 

Packet and tarnished sleeve. 
What is Death? The churlish dustman 

Who trundles his cart at eve. 

What is Pleasure? The froth on the beaker 

Of the sparkling vintage of joy. 
What is Pain? A vengeance wreaker; 

A servant the gods employ. 

What is Honor? A kite that flieth 

High as the gale expands. 
What is Fame? A tongue that lieth — 

A foot-print upon the sands. 

What is Happiness? Perfumed essence 

Born of the dew and light. 
What Despair? A shrouded presence 

That sits by the hearth at night. 

What is Chance ? The heart of a lover, 

A shuttle that weaves the air. 
What is Fate? The coffin cover; 

The Pope in his curule chair. 
"5 



u6 QUESTIONS OF LIFE 

What is Law? The planks and fitting 

Of Noah's expedient Ark. 
What is Faith? The white dove flitting 

Over the waters dark. 

What is Creed? A sea-shore cavern 
Where sounding billows sweep. 

What is Time? A wayside tavern 
Where travellers greet and sleep. 

What is Conscience? A Judge's warrant; 

A vice-shaming polished shield. 
What is Genius? A proud Knight-errant 

Tilting against the field. 

What is Friendship? Convenient barter; 

A heart-fire guide at night. 
What is Love ? Life's chart and charter ; 

An Eagle's tireless flight. 

What is History? The moon investing 

A midnight forest march. 
What is Truth? The keystone resting 

Upon the eternal arch. 



TO THE BUMBLE-BEE 

YOU little, busy, bustling fellow, 
In doublet striped with brown and yellow, 
I wonder if your fair employment 
Is such fine, fanciful enjoyment; 
Dost ever weary of your sweets 
And long for other tasks and meats, 
Like human creatures, who, God wot, 
Are alway grumbling o'er their lot, 
Even should their heavy hoarded money 
Be heaped up higher than your honey; 
"Hard food for Midas," you can beat it, 
Your wealth is fragrant and you eat it. 
You do not feed your idle ones 
As rich folk oft do lazy sons; 
For social needs you think it kinder 
To probe them with a keen reminder. 
In the republic of your hive 
To live is but to work and thrive; 
And though you're chivalrous to ladies 
All idle drones must go to Hades. 
You're very circumspect indeed, sir, 
And lay up plenty for your need, sir; 
But are not stigmatized as niggard 
As careful folk sometimes are figured, 
Nor are to selfishness inclined 
If rightly I can trace your mind; 
But yet, my little buzzing elf, 
You're much like us who live for pelf. 
You have no conscience to be bought, 
117 



n8 TO THE BUMBLE-BEE 

But yet your honey's all your thought. 
What then? you earn and keep your right 
To live — small sensual delight! 
Your life is temperate, proper, just, 
The only thought you have is must. 
And so I hold no right to blame; 
You put me and my kind to shame, 
And teach our selfish ones at ease 
They're not so wise or good as bees. 



THE POOR APPLE WOMAN 

THE busy throng and loaded wain 
Surged by the warehouse wall ; 
Around her in the drizzling rain 

She drew her tattered shawl; 
Unnoticed by a look or word, 
She cowered o'er her scanty hoard. 

Her eyes betrayed a heart that pined; 

Her lips with cold were blue; 
Her face was wan and haggard-lined 

And wore privation's hue; 
Whoe'er hath been of woman born 
Mighty pity one so sad and lorn. 

But Want upon her careworn brow 
Had stamped his cruel seal ; 

No hope of happy fortune now 
Did those sad eyes reveal ; — 

A leaf swept by the winds of fate, 

Trampled at Pleasure's palace gate! 



119 



CHILDLESS 

MY little daughter Nellie 
Would be eighteen to-day, — 
Gone these ten years, I tell ye, 

It's been a dreary way! 
My little daughter Nellie, 
As was so sweet and gay! 

If you'd a-seen her, mister, 
The light of these dim eyes! 

They called her "The Little Sister"- 
The plaguey tears will rise! 

How often in dreams I've kissed her, 
My deary, now in the skies! 

Pretty? God never thought of 
A thing more pure and fair! 

It seemed like she was wrought of 
The sunshine, dew and air. 

Ah, now of her I've nought of 
But memories everywhere! 

Memories that haunt me ever 

As round the place I go; 
A heart so kind and clever, 

A life so all aglow 
With youth and joy, I never 

From now to death will know. 



CHILDLESS 121 

Why, sir, the birds would listen 

But for to hear her sing; 
The wild-flowers seemed to glisten 

As tho touched by an angel's wing 
When she passed — earth's now a prison, — 

No joy in anything! 

The dear white-violets cover 

In spring her churchyard bed, 
And a wild-rose clambers over 

The headstone at her head; 
Each fair thing was her lover, — 

To me and them she's dead! 

Ah, well! I mustn't sadden 

Your heart, so lightsome yet; — 
At times I seemed to madden 

At loss of my little pet; 
Nothing my heart can gladden; 

Old age cannot forget. 



MY THREE FRIENDS 
(Lines on a Photograph of Three Dogs) 

THREE friends are these — adherents of my flag; 
Stanch followers, courtier, learned clerk, and wag; 
Good friends, all three, as e'er did woman own, 
As ever loved a woman or a bone: 
Friends, thoro friends, thru every pulse and breath, 
Friends for all life; perchance — who knows? — past death! 
Each to his service brings a fresh delight 
And feels no virtue in his love's requite. 
Mark you the right-hand comrade — what an air 
Of high-bred grace! his head thrown up in air. 
How like the love-locks of the Cavaliers 
Falls soft the peruke of his silken ears! 
And how the silver locket at his breast 
Shines like the order on a silken vest! 
He is a cavalier! Not Charles' court 
Held one of braver or more constant sort; 
Who, for a cause, would death more quickly face 
Than Hark, my prince of chivalry and grace! 
One night — the tale I will not dwell on — he 
Saved me some inconvenience — robbery — 
Or was it murder? Anyhow, I lay 
My life and diamonds to his love, to-day. 

The middle one, that's Dick, my learned clerk; 
He's smaller than the others — what a perk 
Of knowingness sits on his supple ears ! 
He is the brains of the three worthy peers; 



MY THREE FRIENDS 123 

Prim as a maiden, gentle, but so quick 
To catch a hint or learn the mannered trick! 
Dick knows a thing or two, mayhap, that you 
Or I, my friend, scarce fathom — yet 'tis true 
Dick has no speech beyond a hoarse "y e P> yep !" 
And language, Sir, articulate, is a step 
Dogs will not take this many an aeon — still 
Dick's on the road with a persistent will. 

And now, my third — the one that's on the left; 

No thoroughbred, you see! Nature's bereft 

Brownie of dignity and manners — note 

His blunter nose, his shagginess of coat, 

His tongue a-loll and two big sprawling paws, 

And no clean cut expression to the jaws. 

Yet Brownie, none the less, shall have his due, 

Prince of good fellows! Ay, and princely true! 

Never a better, merrier heart was born; 

With Brownie's love no life could be forlorn; 

See, what an honest, jolly, sonsie face! 

He's prime! the first Mark Tapley of his race! 

So, you perceive, I'm rich in three good friends; 

Friends? More than friends — they're lovers; my amends 

To you, my brave Hark, Dick and Brownie! you 

Reck not who else is to your mistress true, 

Nor what her fortunes are, and in her smile 

You're happy, with no lurking thought of guile; 

You've a capacity for love, I say, 

That has no limit — any popinjay 

Can swear his love's eternal — you've no way 

But to act out your love from day to day. 

<f> «?? " ™ 

You envy them their task? the trade is free; 
I love my dogs. You understand, I see. 



THANKSGIVING HYMN 

A CHEERLESS, bleak November morn 
Broke lowing o'er that band forlorn 
Those grave, stern Pilgrims, robed in gray, 
Who kept our first Thanksgiving Day. 

Between lone shore and lonelier wood 
What trials had their manhood stood! 
Through sorrow, care and toil arose 
The infant state girt round with foes. 

But tho rough wood and barren strand 
Close hemmed that sad faced, toiling band— 
Tho in what hour no soul could tell 
Might rise the Narraganset yell — 

Sundered in that inclement time 
From English kin and England's clime, 
Yet still our fathers blest the sea 
That fenced their dear bought liberty. 

For even while foes and cares assailed, 
Faith grew not dim nor courage failed; 
Then rose the voices rapt and calm, 
That raised our first Thanksgiving psalm. 
***** 

O wondrous change! how wide and fair 
The inheritance their offspring share! 
Yes, all is changed — save faith on high, 
The freeborn heart, the sea and sky. 
124 



THANKSGIVING HYMN 125 

That sea and sky now greet a strand 
Where Freedom still doth stedfast stand, 
While by her side her sisters twain, 
Peace, Plenty — smile o'er shore and main. 

From out that stern and narrow rule 
Have grown the Pulpit, Press and School; 
Whose firm foundations stayed the shock 
Of untoward fate on Plymouth Rock. 

As in that twilight cold and gray, 
As in war's fratricidal day, 
Now in the hour of halcyon calm, 
We raise the old Thanksgiving psalm ! 



A WITHERED ROSE 

THE rose that late in its passion slumbered 
Is dead, — and its bloom is withered to-day, 
And hopes that a longing heart has numbered 
Are torn, like these faded leaves, away. 

Ah me, for the dream that awakes to sorrow; 

For the baseless trust that has bloomed to die ; 
The life of a love that is dead to-morrow; 

For the outward smile and the inward sigh. 

The tears that fall cannot bring back savor 
To the petals once gay with the morning dew, 

Nor the prayers of an errant heart earn favor 
Of joy to the soul to its memories true. 



126 



BETRAYED 

YOU vowed to me your love was like the sea, 
As wide, as free, as fathomless, as strong, 
And in that trust I gave my all to thee, 
A woman's heart, still unforeseeing wrong. 

I blame you not, your nature stands revealed; 

My love was wasted, for you could not know 
For what deep source my cup of joy was filled; 

What hidden springs now feed my bitter woe. 

You could not — ah, had I but found it out 
In time to flee from Love's unreasoning snare, 

Regret had not then ta'en a pledge from Doubt 
Nor innocent Hope submitted to Despair. 

Alas, that the ignoble still must be 

The scourge of generous hearts, and ever bind 

The Christ of the Ideal to the tree, 

Who comes to work redemption for mankind. 



127 



THE VOTIVE ROSE 

SWEET Rose, thou gem of yestermorn, 
All blushing from thy stem wast torn; 
Red as the love pulse of my heart, 
And dewy as my tears that start. 

My tears are not of grief but joy; 
Henceforth no fears shall me annoy; 
He said, the love light in his eye, 
"How sweet, dear Rose, for her to die." 

"For her to die!" ah, happy she! 
Dear Rose, thy brethren of the tree 
Might envy thee thy parting breath, 
Love's envoy glorified in death. 

So long as life abides thy claim 
Is cherished, symbol of love's flame; 
Thy withered form shall daily press 
This leaf where I my love confess. 

And when I die — thy faded bloom 
Shall grace my passage to the tomb, 
And he shall kiss thy leaves and say, 
"Be with her till her waking day." 



128 



SOCIETY AND ART 

FROM Mother earth the potter's crafty hand 
Moulds into shape the vase's flowing line; 
Then art around the surface doth expand 
In bossage, color, tracery, and design. 

The first is elemental — like the child, 
Cast in the matrix of his age and race; 

The second like the man — by dreams beguiled, 
By action formed, with passion's warmth and grace. 

And both are tried by fire — until are fixed 
Indissolubly whilst one shard remains, 

The colors art and social forms have mixed 
In clays and bronzes, or in hearts and brains. 



129 



LINES ON A PICTURE 

THE guests are gone — my lady there is sitting 
Between the lions of her palace gate, 
A frame for peerless beauty most befitting, 
The power that heralds her ancestral state. 

And from her hand the soul of sound has glided 
In rhythmic tremors o'er the starred lagoon ; 

Her spirit seems 'tween earth and heaven divided — 
Ah, may her heart re-echo to love's tune! 



130 



"JUST AS HIGH AS MY HEART" 

HIGH as my heart my lovely lady stands — 
Her eyes gleam like twin sister stars of even, 
Borrowing their beauty from the depths of Heaven. 
Like tapering coral are her milk-white hands ; 
Her lips like roses red that newly leaven. 
High as my heart my lovely lady stands! 

High as my heart my lovely lady stands 
Beneath a bower of clambering brier roses; 
The fawning sunbeam on her form reposes 

And burnishes her braided chestnut bands 
And like a golden shrine her grace encloses. 

High as my heart my lovely lady stands! 

High as my heart my lovely lady stands — 

But, ah, her worth than mine how truer, higher! 
For like as gold that hath been tried by fire 

Her steadfast heart meets all life's stern demands. 
Yet this I say — nor make kind love a liar — 

High as my heart my lovely lady stands! 



131 



THE PRISONER OF LOVE 

THEY who in Love's strong meshes He 
May swear the bonds are sweet — not I. 
Now, Eros, turn thy shafts away, 
My breast to them is proof to-day. 

With youth thy influence, too, hath flown; 
The fair to me is fair alone. 
Thy Mother's self with all her art 
Has now no power to move my heart. 

Only one homage I avow, 

The Attic maid with laurelled brow; 

Thy yoke and tribute I refuse; 

I yield sole service to the Muse. 

The Muse, ah, she's the maid for me! 
Whose breath like summer winds is free, 
Whose eyes are stars of Heaven, whose dress 
Is of all lines of loveliness. 

Who perfume brings of fields and hills; 
Whose voice is of the mountain rills; 
Whose smile is like the radiant beam 
Of some light dancing, lucent stream. 

The Muse is always constant? No! 
Her woman's waywardness will show, 
But when she greets me then I feel 
She loves me aye through dearth and weal. 
132 



THE PRISONER OF LOVE 133 

Yet even while I her claim allow 
I prove a recreant to my vow; 
Despite of proud resolves, betrayed 
By Eros thru an earthly maid. 

The subtile King of hearts! he sent 
His deadliest power of blandishment; 
He roused the slumbering fires to life 
That held my youth in bonds and strife. 

A maiden sweet, a maiden fair, 
With heaven-blue eyes and sunny hair, 
In whose low voice and winning smile 
I note the love-god's cunning wile. 

My Muse, too, in the plot! again 
Complacent to the dual reign; 
If she now joins against me all 
Is up, my shield and falchion fall. 

Why, Eros, warfare dost thou wage 
Against grey hairs and growing age? 
Still thy relentless bow is strung 
'Gainst wise and simple, old and young! 

It recks not to despise thy power; 
None knoweth when may come his hour. 
Now, tyrant, lay thine arrows by; 
Once more thy helpless captive, I. 



IN MEMORIAM 
On the Death of Alfred Tennyson 

WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the king is dead 
Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts; 
He whose revered and silver crowned head 

Lies dreamless midst the thunder of your marts; 
Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien, 
His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline. 

Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt, 
Amidst the dust of your illustrious great, 

He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped, 
Peer of the grandest of your race or state; 

Yea, Prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime; 

A Monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time! 

For even when the trembling hand of age 

Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound 

Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage, 
The Master-minstrel all your being found; 

Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth, 

And charmed with music the high paths to truth. 

Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial stone, 
And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse; 

Voice the far echo of his godlike tone; 

Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse; 

All — all in vain — no Star of Song doth rise 

Above the grave where your great Laureate lies. 

i34 



IN MEMORIAM 135 

The laurel wreath of Spenser should not grace 

A front less high than this majestic brow, 
The stamp imperial graved upon the face, 

Fervently lighted with the poet's vow; 
And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart 
Blooming and fruiting in the close of art. 

The hand that might have grasped yon silent lyre, 
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might, 

Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir, 
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light; 

Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran 

Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man. 

But now, the Arthur of your poet realm, 

Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme, 
Whom will ye find to wear his winged helm 

Or ride his charger down the lists of time? 
The new Pendragon — where can such be found? 
Alas, not one of all your Table Round! 

Let none the storied chords of that clear harp 

Restrike in service dissonant and vain; 
Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp; 

Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain; 
Hang up the shining wires above his head 
And leave your laureate's crown upon the dead. 



ROBERT BROWNING 

KNIGHT in the vanguard of knowledge, peer of the king- 
dom of thought, 
Prophet, and priest, and bard, thou hast sung for futurity, 

wrought 
For the ampler after-time, for the kindlier soul's increase, 
For the higher, humbler faith, for the purest, heavenliest 
peace. 

Thou hast hidden thy gold and rubies in thy quartz of 

rough-veined verse; 
Thou hast probed the secret soul with thy questions grave 

and terse; 
Thou turned'st the lamp of thy mind on the palimpsest of 

the heart; 
Thou didst strain in the bonds of Time, now Eternity's 

ward thou art. 

Thy sheaf of years hung full of the green hope of thy 

youth, 
Nurtured by secret dews from the heaven of love and truth; 
No blast of malice can shake, nor Time's envious mace 

assault 
Thy spacious structure of song, arched over earth's storied 

vault. 

Thou didst spurn the Egyptian's lure, thou didst cleave to 

the race enslaved; 
Thou didst dwell unknown to those for whose weal thou 

hadst tyrants braved; 

136 



ROBERT BROWNING 137 

Thou beheldst the burning bush, thy feet the mount had 

trod, 
In the lair of the angry cloud thou stoodst face to face with 

God! 

The glory of song in thy heart lit thy face with auroral ray ; 
Thou heldst our wisdom in trust, the chief of transition's 

day; 
Unbated by churlish age, thy lone, far-sighted stand' 
Was the Pisgah heights of song o'erlooking the Promised 

Land. 

Rest, crowned with the proud assurance thy verse was not 

wrought in vain, 
Though the century turn aside to its idols of pleasure and 

gain; 
Thou wilt be heard aright when the lutes and the laughter 

have ceased 
And the soul is alone with its stars, undazed by the glare 

of the feast. 

This leasehold thou hast exchanged for a wider and fadeless 

life; 
The swaddling bands of flesh thou hast cast to a world of 

strife ; 
Thou hast traversed the waters of Death; thou hast found 

thy chosen mate, 
The sibyl of burning song, the revealer of words of fate. 

Where the blue Venetian night falls a spangled, huge con- 
cave, 

Did thy venturous spirit wing forth like a prayer from a 
dome-crowned nave; 

Like Arcturus throned afar in a mist of twinkling shine 

Starts thy star on the heaven of song, loved guest of the 
trophied Nine! 



TO SIDNEY LANIER 

DEAR brother minstrel, Heaven-crowned spirit friend, 
Who saw unrolled the apocalypse of earth, 
Whose soul was star-lit, music-charmed from birth, 
Who didst through aether send 
The unwearied gaze of half-requited eyes, 
Longing for higher, holier mysteries — 
O wheresoe'er art thou — 
Within what starry sphere 
Thy spirit bourgeons, hear! 
Bend down through space and touch mine eyes and brow. 

Kiss these dull eyes awake that they may view 
Like thee all beauty, the involved charm 
Of Nature, which thy spirit only knew, 
Or knew with angels — O thou bright-souled seer 
Who resteth on God's never-tiring arm, 
And seeth this fair-world a sparkle shining clear 
Amidst the constellations — Thou whose pen 
Burnt golden characters for soul-blind men, 
Furrowing thy page with light, 
(Heaven all thy heart requite!) 

Sweet spirit, that bear'st faint scar of sin, bend down thy 
Heaven entranced ear! 

This dull material round hath need of thee! 
The foison greed of Wealth besets our life; 
With earth-blind eyes we see 
Not the bright quietude but the cloudy strife. 
That heaven, which to the ancient world seemed near, 
Is but a waste of doctrine, dry and drear; 

138 



TO SIDNEY LANIER 139 

A world by dogma vext; 

A world with doubts perplexed; 

The dizzy heights we gain; 

Our weary eyes we strain 

And miss the glory shining in the plain; 

Some cloud is ever shutting from our eyes 

The soul-enhancing visions vainly sought for in the skies! 

We walk as in a trance ; 

We gaze with eyes askance 

Upon our fellows in the crowded street; 

We crush life's flowers beneath our heedless feet, 

And self, with its unending cares, 

Enlists our faith, our hopes, our hearts, our prayers; 

We struggle to be free, 

But a sad fatality 

Breaks in across our souls and hides the star 

Of promise even from the good and wise; 

The elemental war 

Environs us and takes us for its prize. 

Thou vanished in thy noon! 

Nature is niggard of such souls as thine, 

Fearing her mysteries would be told too soon ; 

Thou youngest of the radiant Shelley line — 

Hadst thou but lived to be 

Full prophet in the new-time poesy, 

What fair-found heights of knowledge had we gained! 

We had not now remained, 

Groping abroad with unconsidered sight, 

Missing the clearer light 

Of truth, to blindly fall on Hope's inconstancy. 

But not all unfulfilled 

Thy earthly mission or thy pledge of song, 

Nor didst thou knock in vain upon our hearts; 



140 TO SIDNEY LANIER 

The house thy hands hath built 

For tired souls to rest in bideth strong 

As adamant, and braves the shocks of fate 

And winds of custom; at its open gate 

Sweet Confidences meet hospitably 

Wayfaring spirits and invite them in, 

And light their loads of sin, 

And tell them many rapturous noble things of thee. 

Minstrel of earth and sky, 

Mak'st thou no reply? 

Say, is our mortal quest and longing vain? 

Hast thou in happiness forgot the throng 

Of work-day lives on this low-lying plain? 

Nor wilt thou lend them of thy new-found song? 

Perhaps 'tis better so; 

Perchance we dare not know, 

Nor thou disclose what meets thy finer ear — 

Or how bliss tranced souls unfold and grow, 

Or how the favored Isles of Heaven appear. 

Yet, sweet ghost, hear! 

Oh, send some largesse of thy wealth divine — 

Some tempered draught of thy rapt spirit's wine 

Into this earthly, wayward, dim-lit, heart of mine! 



MARLOWE 

WHAT a fine frenzy of poetic might 
Shows Marlowe, rising to his passion's height ! 
Throughout all space his song triumphant soars, 
Fathoms all passion, all delight explores. 
His muse culls all things delicate and rare 
To adorn her vestments or to gem her hair; 
Plucks the bright bay leaf from its highest bough, 
Wet with Castalian dews, to deck her brow. 
With burning speed she scours the hill of fame 
To win the laurel of a world's acclaim; 
And would, so daring is her high emprise, 
Reach at the stars to pluck them from the skies. 
Leaving but half the wondrous story told 
Of that fine fable of true love of old, 
Marlowe flung down his mighty gift and life, 
His proud heart cloven by a scullion's knife! 



141 



REQUIESCAT! 

{On the Death of Oliver Wendell Holmes.) 

NAUGHT may be said 
O'er the still presence of the illustrious dead 
To forge one star-point to his fair renown, 
Or weave one laurel in his fadeless crown, 
To grace his time-worn, white and reverend head — 
Compounded now with dust, 

And with the grieving Autumn strewing it with leaves- 
Who held our hearts in loving fetters bound, 
A husbandman of many kinds of sheaves, 
Now himself garnered to the greater store 
Of sages gone before, 

Out of the heartache, care and earthly lust; 
Who like .a true knight hath fulfilled his trust, 
Singing himself to sleep, 
And facing fearlessly the deep profound, 
And smiling still upon our eyes that weep, 
That now shall nevermore 
Behold him face to face upon Time's echoing shore. 

Yet fitly may a bard of younger race, 
Trained to a newer habitude of rhyme, 
Turn with his own thin laurel to the place 
Where rests the veteran of the older time; 
The man of stiff set lance and trenchant blade, 
Naught venal, naught afraid, 

With all the great heart of the Northern clime, — 

142 



REQUIESCAT! 143 

Then, midst the worthier tributes resting there 
(And on his lips a prayer), 
Hang his slight chaplet on the cypress bough, 
In token of his faith, his reverence and vow. 

For of the sons of song she nurtured forth, 

New England, mother of renowned men, 

He most combined the fiber of the North 

With the South 's flexile grace, 

And from its cloudless, sun-bathed lurking place 

His ardent fancy leaped upon the page 

And stamped its impress there for every future age. 

And he was last of that triumphant throng 

Who voiced the earlier Genius of their land, 

And spake to souls in terms they understand, 

Nor grudged impassioned song, 

But felt the thrill of Nature through their veins; 

Who smote venality, pretense and wrong, 

Nor counted up their gains 

By Custom's tally, but to the larger rule 

Of the immortal bards, put their young art to school. 

Therefore, no passing fame 

Shines out from each deep-graved, illustrious name, 

Carved in our tree of Liberty; for they 

Were nurtured in no dilettante day, 

But from the forge and flame 

Of civil strife they wrought their strenuous claim, 

And woke an echo that resounds alway, 

Through every realm and clime, 

Far down the lengthening avenues of Time. 

Perchance they greet him now 

With the new-twisted amaranth on his brow, 

And welcome him to their high-placed retreat, 



144 REQUIESCAT! 

And to their rose-bowered seat 

In the Elysium of the poet-band, 

And take him by the hand, 

Those comrades whom he knew and loved in life, — 

The Concord seer, 

And he who sang the wave bright Merrimac, — 

Lowell the generous hearted, and that soul 

Endeared to every fireside, and him austere, 

Bryant, the first of ours who struck his harp notes clear. 

But not alone the sons of song shall claim 

The soul of him who charmed forth smiles or tears ; 

He owes not to their muse alone his fame 

And all the coming honors of the years; 

Her plainer sister claims an equal share 

Of glory he doth wear; 

And in her train he finds some loved compeers, — 

The sweet souled Hawthorne, whose deep-reading eyes 

Drew Magic from the skies, 

And Irving, genial heart and kindly hand, 

And Cooper, painter true of his loved mountain land. 

Yet he his other self hath left behind, — 

The priceless legacy of his hand and brain; 

The wit that falls in showers like diamond rain, 

The gayety that to all care is blind; 

And his rare, pregnant wisdom, Iris sweet, 

With all the children of his soul who still his fame repeat. 

Then, ye who loved him from your days of youth, 

Make no vain lamentation for the dead; 

For he hath left the mantle of his truth 

And he who wills may wear it in his stead; 

But ne'er with such a grace, — 

For ne'er again the old-time cavalier 

Will flash his sword in rhyme and chant his rondel clear. 



LINES 

AT THE END OF A PROSE ESSAY ON OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
ON THE COMPLETION OF HIS EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. 

THUS have I writ with fixed, impartial aim 
To give no undue tribute, o'erdue blame; 
Grudging the bard no honest meed of praise, 
And yet not spendthrift of my loyal bays; 
Now may the Muse her smiling favor bring, 
And strike the light-stringed measure which I sing. 

Briefly I choose the close-linked formal line, 
The honored mode of bards well named divine; 
O'er it old Chaucer took his jocund road; 
Along it Marvell's forceful measures flowed; 
Dryden's tense genius swelled its tide of song; 
Upon it Pope's terse reason swept along; 
O'er its dark stream the torch of Byron burned; 
Twice to its flow Keats' shallop fancy turned : 
It bore along its rippling, limpid breast 
Hunt's courtly theme and Morris' antique zest; 
Thine, Holmes, its swift, its sunbright sparkling strain 
That fairly limns the landscape of thy brain; 
That picturesquely turns in play of thought, 
In flowery bends of pleasant fancy caught, 
Smooth in its current as its tide is clear, 
And ever manly, cultured and sincere; — 
The rhymed pentameter — that tireless hack 
That's borne a horde of bardlings on its back, 

145 



H6 LINES 

Drumming their dull, unvarying rataplan 
On every theme from Cosmos to a fan, 
Their thick octavos in oblivion sunk, 
Gone to the flame, the ragman, and the trunk. 

Last of a line — behold the veteran stand, 

The lance of wit still quivering in his hand; 

With locks all whitened now, yet holding still 

A cheerful courage, an enduring will; 

Last of a race of bards; — too proud to climb 

Into the saddle of new-fashioned rhyme; 

Too wise to value art o'er lucid sense; 

Too brave to draw the curb on eloquence; 

Not always deep, perchance, in flow of song, 

But full-breathed, tuneful, fluent, limpid, strong; 

A voice, gay, genial, grave — still true to guide 

From erring paths hot youth's impatient stride; 

A humor keen, yet with no rankling smart; 

Its champagne sparkling, bubbling from the heart; 

A wit perennial and a fancy free, 

The bloom of Spring on life's long wintered tree; 

A heart as tender as a lover's thought; 

A falcon spirit, fearless, firmly wrought; 

Quick to detect, yet tardy to condemn, 

Well armed with pungent, pointed apothegm; 

Shrewd Yankee mind with graft of learning's fruit; 

An ear fine-tuned as Blondel's joyous lute; 

As sly and quaint as Shandy in his style, 

With something of the Frenchman in his smile; 

At fourscore still a bright-eyed, kindly man, 

Part courtier-cavalier, part Puritan; 

Revered where'er the rose of culture grows, 

From Astral summer to Alaskan snows; 

A school-boy's eye beneath his doctor's hat, 

Our love-crowned poet, laurelled Autocrat! 



"THREESCORE AND TEN" 



BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

Who reach their threescore years and ten, 

As I have mine, without a sigh, 
Are either more or less than men — 
Not such am I. 

I am not of them; life to me 

Has been a strange, bewildered dream, 
Wherein I knew not things that be 
From things that seem. 

I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, 

And had one gift, when I was young — 
The impulse and the power to sing, 
And so I sung. 

To have a place in the high choir 

Of poets, and deserve the same — 
What more could mortal man desire 
Than poet's fame? 

I sought it long, but never found ; 

The choir so full was, and so strong 
The jubilant voices there, they drowned 
My simple song. 

Men would not hear me then, and now 

I care not, I accept my fate. 
When white hairs thatch the furrowed brow, 
Crowns come too late! 

The best of life went long ago 

From me; it was not much at best; 
Only the love that young hearts know, 
The dear unrest. 
147 



148 TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

Back on my past, through gathering tears, 

Once more I cast my eyes, and see 
Bright shapes that in my better years 
Surrounded me! 

They left me here, they left me there, 

Went down dark pathways, one by one, — 
The wise, the great, the young, the fair; 
But I went on! 



And I go on ! And, bad or good, 
The old allotted years of men 
I have endured, as best I could — 
Threescore and ten! 



TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

THREESCORE AND TEN 

NOT so, you do your craftsmen wrong, 
They love you, they, the earnest men; 
All hail, our veteran chief of song, 
Threescore and ten! 

Though time has blanched and thinned your hair, 
Shaken your strength and dimmed your gaze, 

Greenly you yet the laurel wear, 
As in old days. 

And if the shallow, vain acclaim 
Has passed you by for feebler men, 

Know the tried corps of younger fame 
Revere your pen. 



TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 149 

True fame is yours, abiding, strong; 

This Time will mould in just relief, 
When all the meretricious throng 

Who wear the leaf 

Will vanish from the thoughts of men, 

Like those of Delia Cruscan time, 
With all their fluttering pride of pen 

And puny rhyme. 

Our old man eloquent be thou! 

Still with wise counsels light our ways, . 
Ungrudging still some worthy brow 

Its budding bays. 

Then grieve not o'er the passing time, 

Friends gone, the brilliant, wise, and brave; 

Our country's richer for your rhyme 
From wave to wave! 

Why not ? Truth still breeds reverent hearts ; 

This land doth proud traditions nurse; 
As long as blooms our rose of arts 

Lives Stoddard's verse! 



I 



LIFE AND DEATH 

REIGN beyond the bourne of Fate and Time, 
Through all the Present I echo of the Past, 

All things but God are in my leash — I climb 
From star to star and quench them all at last — 

I blast the blooms of promise with a breath," 

Vaunts Death. 

"I am the spirit in matter — the All-Searcher, 
I am driven like surf by one deep-moving force, 

Even in the grasp of Death my hope I nurture, 
Enswathing Love is both my end and source, 

Peace is my handmaid and my thrall is Strife," 

Chants Life. 



150 



SONGS AND LYRICS 



HEY, HO, ROBIN! 

(a madrigal) 

HARK, d'ye hear the Robin's early greeting 
O'er the clover blossoms gemmed with dew; 
All the gladness of his heart repeating, 

Heart that never care or sorrow knew. 
Over upland, lawn and orchard 

His clear pipe is heard: — 
' 'Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! ' ' 

Hey, ho, Robin; hey, ho, happy bird! 

In his russet coat and vest of scarlet, 

With his jaunty crest and glittering eye, 
Was there ever such a merry varlet? 

Look upon him and forget to sigh. 
Ah, but he's the blithesome rover! 

His glad pipe is heard: — 
' ' Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! ' ' 

Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 

How Sir Malpert loves to steal his dinner 

From our cherry trees across the way; 
He's as reckless as a hardened sinner; 

He's a prodigal who's always gay. 
Rocking on the topmost branches 

Still his pipe is heard: — 
"Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 

Hey, ho, Robin ; hey, ho, happy bird ! 
153 



154 HEY, HO, ROBIN! 

Ah, my blithe and brave fair weather fellow, 

Soon again to milder haunts thou'lt wend; 
When the leaves are turning brown and yellow 

We will miss our early morning friend; 
There thru fields of endless summer 

Will thy pipe be heard : — 
"Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 

Hey, ho, Robin; hey, ho, happy bird! 

How those fair and distant shores we'll envy 

When rough Winter drives thee from our clime; 
Hostage to the summer tho we send thee, 

Thou wilt greet us in thy mating time. 
Then unto thy loved one calling 

Will thy pipe be heard : — 
"Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" 

Hey, ho, Robin; hey, ho, happy bird! 



WRITTEN FOR A CANADIAN NATIONAL 
ANTHEM 

THE banner with the blood-red field 
Flew in the western main; 
It made the golden Lilies yield, 

It curbed the pride of Spain; 
Till kindred blood ungrateful furled 

That flag of broad renown; — 
All save the North — 
She held it forth 

For England's ancient crown ; 
Brave Canada, thou heldst it forth 

For England's empire crown! 

Since that dark day in many a fray, 

The three cross banner near, 
On native strand, in Transvaal land, 

The seven-fold shield flew clear; 
When the Nor'west, a hornets' nest, 

Came buzzing round her form, 
In royal ire she searched with fire 

That mongrel, stinging swarm. 
With dreadful frown she stamped them down 

And shook her sword of might, 
With queenly frown 
She stamped them down, 

In Death's and Hell's despite. 

The Trident Matron from her steep 
Looks out across the wave, 
155 



156 CANADIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM 

And sees beyond the distant deep 

That heritage of the brave; 
Two ocean shores 
Ope wide their doors 

To worlds both old and new; — 
Thy princely hand 
Pledge, Motherland, 

A daughter tried and true! 
No slave shall stand 
Upon thy strand, 

O daughter proud and true! 

Of nations five who round the world 

Patrol the Seven Seas, 
Of scions four who guard the door 

Of British destinies; 
Daughters of pith who peerless front 

The enemies of their race, 
She stands the first — tho Gallic nursed, 

She hath the English face. 
Then here's a health, 
True hearts and wealth, 

Fair Canada, to thee! 
A long deep health, 
Leal hearts and wealth, 

Brave Canada, to thee! 



LOVE LEADING 

MY love she's tripping down the lane 
Amid the dews, amid the dews; 
My love she's stepping down the lane, 
Fair through the sunset's golden rain, 
Down toward the fields of nodding grain, 
Amidst the evening dews. 

The latticed beams between the boughs 
Play o'er her hair, play o'er her hair; 

The flattering beams between the boughs 

Light up her snow white neck and brows ; 

She ne'er to me such bliss allows, 
To play with her bright hair. 

The jealous wild-flowers she doth pass 
Are scant of cheer, are scant of cheer; 

The flaunting field-flowers she doth pass 

Now shrink their crowns amidst the grass; 

They ne'er have seen so fair a lass; 
They all are scant of cheer. 

The timid violets nigh the path 
Nod dainty heads, nod dainty heads; 

The slim, coy violets nigh the path, 

They hold for her no selfish wrath, 

Each dear to her a kinship hath, 
They nod their fragrant heads. 
157 



158 LOVE LEADING 

The blithe wild rose on thorny. stem 

Is sad in fear, is sad in fear; 
The bold wild rose on bending stem 
Flutters its pink pearl diadem; 
'Twould fain her beauteous cheek condemn, 

'Tis wondrously in fear. 

The star of Eve that warms the skies 
Doth watch my dear, doth watch my dear, 

The Evening Star that studs the skies, 

It knows it may not match her eyes; 

'Tis standing tip-toe with surprise 
Watching my dearest dear. 

She carols to the perfumed breeze 
So sweetly clear, so sweetly clear; 

Her pure voice lulls the perfumed breeze; 

She hushes all the whispering trees, 

She soothes to sleep the loitering bees, 
With song so sweetly clear. 



The listening linnet lifts his head 
Behind the bough, behind the bough ; 

The gray-backed linnet bobs his head 

From forth his thatched and leafy bed, 

"I cannot sing such songs," he said 
Beside the green beech bough. 

Was ever youth so blest as I? 

Love leads her nigh, Love leads her nigh; 
There ne'er was youth so blest as I; 
Her glance to mine makes sweet reply; 
She's coy as fluttering butterfly, 

For that Love leads her nigh. 



LOVE LEADING 159 

The tell-tale flow invades her cheek; 

She stills her song, she stills her song, 
The rich, red glow pervades her cheek; 
Her eyes are playing hide and seek; 
She cannot trust her lips to speak, 

Although she's stilled her song. 

Fair traitor, now you're mine at last! 

No truce will I, no truce will I. 
Soft hands, sweet face, you're ta'en at last! 
Behind all doubts and fears I cast; 
The time for vain delay has past, 

No shamefaced truce will I! 



A SONG OF SUMMER 

AN oriole is singing 
Her anthem clear and high ; 
A blackbird blithe is ringing 

Her jubilate nigh; 
I watch the swallows winging, — 
Shearing the azure sky. 

The dragon-fly is glancing 
Zigzag, a winged spear; 

A woodpecker is lancing 
An elm-tree bole anear; 

How wondrous, how entrancing, 
Are all I see and hear! 

Around me is the humming 
Of heavy-freighted bees; 

Over the field is coming 

The winsome morning breeze; 

This is the time for summing 
All soulful ecstasies! 

In such a place and season 
All life its care forgets; 

Come Fancy, loved of Reason, 
Look at my tiny pets, 

The crickets, black as treason, 
Clicking their castanets! 
1 60 



A SONG OF SUMMER 161 

Like a Walpurgis revel 

The dream of life flows on; 
Across the lawny level 

A tender haze is drawn; 
This fair scene even a devil 

Would love to look upon! 

From out the pale blue ether 

Glows the untarnished sun; 
To robe her heir and wreathe her 

Hath Spring her glories spun, 
And smiling did bequeath her 

The flowerets every one! 

'Tis buxom, regal Summer, 

Her fragrant zone unbound; 
With minstrel bird and hummer 

Of many an infant round; 
Of zest the rhythmic plumber, 

A carnival of sound! 

But yet there lacks one measure 

Of joy on eye and ear, — 
A smile of tender pleasure, 

A voice of gentle cheer; 
This were the lap of leisure, 

Sweetheart, if thou wert here! 



SAINT CHRISTMAS 

SAINT CHRISTMAS still is hale and stout, 
His welcome grows not cold, 
Still rings his royal greeting out 
Each year to young and old. 

With robe of fur and beard of snow, 

And wreath of holly green, 
And with a paunch like bended bow 

Or lordly soup-tureen; 

And with a round and rosy face 

As any friar of yore, 
Lit with a kindly, reverent grace 

And cheer that runneth o'er. 

And with a heart all sound and true, 

And comfit-bag well lined — 
Sure never one an old man knew 

So gay, so pleasant, kind! 

Not half so blithe and debonair, 

Nor with so merry a voice; 
He must be sure a child of care 

Whom Christmas can't rejoice! 

He must be lean and starved of soul 

As any o'er-driven hack, 
He must be sick or in sad dole 

Whom Christmas lures not back 
162 



SAINT CHRISTMAS 163 

To household cheer and kindly deed, 

And simple mirth and jest, 
To tender care for human need, 

To generous faith and rest. 

What time the merry bells ring out 

And all the ways are white, 
While rises glad the youthful shout 

Beneath the holly bright. 

Or when on hallowed Christmas-tide 

The children, brimmed with glee, 
Crowd round his saintship's special pride, 

The glittering Christmas tree. 

When all the family meet once more 

Around the groaning board, 
And Christmas knocks against the door 

Of merchant, peasant, lord. 

And entering in with lusty cheer 

Doth o'er the feast preside, 
And lights the eye and tunes the ear 

And sets the tongue a-glide. 

And hangs the treacherous mistletoe 

Right down the path of girls, 
That brings mishap to gallant bow 

And dainty forehead curls. 

Yes, sure he's ill and far from gay, 

Ay, bilious-green and pale, 
Who turns with sullen scorn away 

From Christmas glad and hale. 



164 SAINT CHRISTMAS 

From Christmas hale and holly-crowned 
And full three yards about, 

In all our forty States around 
Is none so jolly stout! 

Is none so dear to childhood's heart; 

And though folk dub him Nick, 
Of all the saints who live in art 

He is the prince and pick. 

He is the merriest saint of all 
Who live in tale or song, 

And they who on blithe Christmas call 
Will not go far a-wrong. 

Long may he bear his princely pack 
Of joys both great and small; 

Long may his laugh ring joyous back 
From hut or palace wall! 

And long may we who joyful take 
His Yuletide to our breasts, 

Live kindly for the old chap's sake 
And keep his plays and jests. 



From all the saints of olden day, 

Matthew to Margery, 
Christmas doth bear the bell away — 

Yes, he's the saint for me! 



'THE SPRINGTIME LINGERETH LONG, 
LOVE" 

THE springtime lingereth long, love, 
No birds are in the bowers; 
No early primrose after the snows 
Nor violets born of showers. 
But everything speaks of thee, love, 
The very air I breathe 
Comes wafted to me 
Over the lea 

With messages dear from thee, love, 
Messages dear from thee. 

Like a nun asleep is the earth, love, 

Wimpled, sombre, and white; 

Her snowy hands pressed above her breast 

And with snowy robes bedight. 

'Tis winter over the wold, love, 

No leaf on bush or tree; 

Yet what if it be, 

'Tis nothing to me 

When I am thinking of thee, love, 

I am thinking of thee. 

The sky is grey with clouds, love, 
The sun puts on no crown; 
His radiant hair is shorn of glare 
And his bright face wears a frown. 
But let him frown on as he lists, love, 
165 



1 66 "SPRINGTIME LINGERETH LONG, LOVE" 

He harms not thee nor me; 
The light of our skies each other's eyes 
When we together shall be, love, 
We together shall be. 

There's wisdom enough in the world, love, 

To freight a soul for heaven; 

But the wisdom sages have known for ages 

Is not free to mortals given; 

But ours is free as the sunshine, love, 

And rich as it is free; 

Life's no sweet dole 

To the loveless soul, 

As it is to thee and me, my love, 

As it is to thee and me. 



FAIRIES' SONG 

HERE we to the midnight green 
Speed in service of our queen ; 
From the ribbed salt-sea strand ; 
From the lonely mountain land; 
From where Ignis Fatuus strays 
Through the marshy thicket's maze. 

Here we o'er the moonlit green 
Throng at bidding of our queen; 
Guided by the firefly's lamp 
Through the night-tide cold and damp; 
Till the white stars' beams are shorn 
And the cock crows shrill at morn. 

Here we on the bosky green 
Yield obeisance to our queen; 
We the frisky squirrels teach 
Nuts to hoard in hollow beech; 
Teach the brindled bee to fly 
Honey bag beneath her thigh. 

Here we to the scented green 
Bring the trappings of our queen; 
Here's a crown of crystal globe! 
Here's a purple bat's wool robe ! 
Here's a throne of diamond spar, 
And a moth-drawn emerald car! 
167 



168 FAIRIES' SONG 

Here we on the bowered green 
Hold the court of Fairy Queen; 
Round the hamlets raise our chant 
Ere we hie to wild wood haunt, 
Till the silver crescent dips 
In the wave her horned tips. 

Here we on the tufted green 
Dance around our Fairy Queen; 
They we are who hold in charm 
Gnomes and witches from their harm; 
Creatures born of Luna's beams, 
Send we kind hearts happy dreams. 

Here we on the painted green 
Sing around our Fairy Queen; 
Elves we are who fill the boy 
With his springtime wealth of joy; 
Teach the tender maids to see 
Beauty in each flower and tree. 

Here we on the freaked green 
Pledge the fortunes of our queen; 
Drinking dew distilled of flowers 
In these snail-shell cups of ours; — 
Let the perfumed mead we drain 
Cheer the heart and fire the brain. 

Here we on the broidered green 
Hold the revel of our queen; 
All among the clover bloom — 
All among the heather plume — 
All around the haunted well 
Where the Nixies love to dwell. 



FAIRIES' SONG 169 

Here we from the pearled green 
Haste at mandate of our queen ; 
See the morn is breaking gray 
Over the hill-tops far away ! 
Benison we leave with you, — 
Mortals all, adieu! adieu! 



MY LASSIE WITH YOUR EYES OF BLUE 

I WAS a good-for-nothing fellow, 
'Twas little work that I would do; 
Still fond of drink till I got mellow; 
My dollars hardly earned and few; 
'Til I met you — 
My lassie with your eyes of blue. 

You set my poor dull brain to thinking; 

You set my heart a-throbbing too; 

I scarce could look at you for blinking, 

You were so wondrous fair to view; 

Bright, pure as dew — 

My lassie with your eyes of blue. 

Then all my foolish ways went packing, 

And ever as I worthier grew, 

I felt my merits more than lacking, 

My fealty could humbly sue; 

Thru thought of you, — 

My lassie with your eyes of blue. 

I now have buckled on my armor; 
I've quit the weed and wine-cup, too; 
I've turned a trusty, thrifty farmer; 
I save my money like a Jew; 
'Tis all for you, — 
My lassie with your eyes of blue. 
170 



MY LASSIE WITH EYES OF BLUE 171 

My heart's a bark that's ready laden 

With store of service choice and new; 

Then take it lovely, tender maiden, 

It bears its cargo all to you, 

Of pledges due, — 

My lassie with your eyes of blue. 

Then when my heart's full sail you've sighted, 

And it has anchored close to you, 

Let not its loving freight be slighted; 

The foolish heart, 'twas all it knew; 

Just love, be true — 

My lassie with your eyes of blue. 






FAIR AS CERES BEARING GUERDON 

FAIR as Ceres bearing guerdon, 
First I met her midst the corn ; 
To our ears the merry burden 
Of the reaping song was borne; 
On that morn, 
There beside the nodding corn. 

There was none in all the county, 
None like her so pure and fair; 
With her princely father's bounty 
In the land could none compare; 
Stood she there, 
With a white rose in her hair. 

Oft beside yon gleaming river 
Held we converse sweet and low; 
Where the paly shafts do quiver 
From the new moon's silver bow; 
Where they glow, 
And the pleasant waters flow. 

There I loved her, there I wooed her, 
And she plighted troth for mine; 
(Though I was of lineage ruder, 
And she came of lofty line) ; — 
Lo, for sign 

See, this faded eglantine! 
172 



FAIR AS CERES BEARING GUERDON 173 

Soon, alas, fate came between us 
And our last adieus were sighed; 
Love had naught on earth to screen us; 
She became a lordling's bride; — 
Then she died, 
Like a flower cut down in pride! 

Often now I sit and listen 

To the river's monotone; 

Still its waters lave and glisten, 

Yet it answers me my moan, 

All alone! 

For my heart is turned to stone! 



A SONG OF THE DAWN 

OH, how sweet in the summer fields is the breath of the 
cool clear dawn, 
When the vapory grey is rolled from the earth like the 

veil from a face withdrawn; 
When the Moon her canopied state in heaven resigns to 

the Lord of Light, 
And her splendid glittering courtier train have vanished in 
faithless flight; 



'Til the green voluptuous land, new-waked, smiles bright 
in the face of Day, 

And Night's bodeful dreams with the bats and owls to the 
darkness hie away; 

When the blooms of the clover fill the air with their count- 
less faint perfumes, 

While millions of pearl-strewed gossamer webs the gay 
young Sun illumes: 

When the fingers of wizard winds play light with the leaves 
of the woodland's crown; 

And the crispy rasp of the whetted scythe through the still- 
ness filters down; 

And the low of the mild, f ull-uddered cows goes forth to 
their offspring near, 

While, clapping his wings to the joyous morn, winds his 
challenge the chanticleer: 
174 



A SONG OF THE DAWN 175 

When the incense of early cottage fires curls soft through 

the delicate blue, 
And the caw comes down from the wooded heights of the 

crows' freebooting crew; 
And the clangorous wild-geese wing their flight o'er meadow 

and moor and brake 
To flash their wings and dabble their beaks in the breast 

of the northern lake; 

WTien the vigilant cricket wakes his friends asleep in the 
feathery breres, 

'Til the grasshopper leaps from his leaf-hung couch through 
his forest of blades and spears; 

'Til all over the fragrant breast of earth the lives of sum- 
mer rejoice, 

And the varied myriad insect tones blend one universal 
voice ; 

When the face of every wilding flower is washed her lord 
to greet; 

When the robin whistles his blithest note and the black- 
bird's song is sweet ; — 

Then is the time for the spirit of man to unburden the 
breast of care, 

For thankless indeed must be the soul untouched by a scene 
so fair! 



SEA SONG 

OUR ship is a stanch-built trader; 
Like a duck she rides the sea; 
And a heartier crew or captain, lads, 

Was never my hap to see; 
She's loaded for Valparaiso 

To the guards with Yankee stuff; 
And never shall fail to carry her sail 
Though the storm be growling gruff. 

Then here's to the hardy sailor, 

Whose home is the dark blue wave; 

Who sleeps like a rock in the tempest's shock, 
Or roars his rough sea-stave. 

Leave the land-lubber clinging 

To earth like a timid snail, 
But here's to a rush with the crowding breeze, 

The spread of the bellying sail! 
To-day at Porto Rico, 

To-morrow at Trinidad, 
While our good ship breasts the combing crests 

Like a race horse proud and glad. 

(Then here's to the hardy sailor, etc.) 

Then when the hurricane whistles 
We'll reef and take in sail, 
176 



SEA SONG 177 

And batten each hatch and make all taut 

In the teeth of the pounding gale; 
While under our feet the timbers 

Slant like a pent-house roof, 
And the spray like hail drives over the rail 

With the force of the devil's hoof. 

(Then here's to the hardy sailor, etc.) 

But when the halcyon summer 

Settles across the sea, 
And the clouds pack off to their mountain tops 

And the round blue heaven is free, 
Then deep in the ocean's bosom, 

The stars shall make their bed, 
And the moon hang bright her lantern white 

In the dusky arch o'erhead. 

(Then here's to the hardy sailor, etc.) 

Then we, old Neptune's children, 

Who guide trade's floating barns, 
We'll puff our pipes and nuzzle our grog 

A-spinning our tough sea-yarns; 
A-spinning our long sea-stories, 

A-thinking of Nan or Sue, 
And how some day in Portland Bay 

She'll welcome her seaman true. 

(Then here's to the hardy sailor, etc.) 

Curse then who will the ocean, 

She's nurse to earnest men; 
A deep surmise she teaches the soul 

Of Eternity's endless ken; 



178 SEA SONG 

She plays her pranks upon us, 

But, oh, her heart is free! 
And as soft a sleep has the mighty deep 

As a babe on its mother's knee. 

Then here's to the hardy sailor 

Whose home is the dark blue wave; 

Who sleeps like a rock in the tempest's shock, 
Or roars his rough sea-stave! 



INVOCATION TO LOVE 

GOD, defied of lovely Eva, 
Cupid, Eros, Hamadeva, 
Or by whatsoever name 
Thou hast long been known to fame — 
Child of Venus — Psyche's spouse — 
Listen to thy poet's vows! 
For his mistress, wanton she, 
Harrieth him with treachery. 



By thy bow of silver whiteness — 

By thy quiver's golden brightness — 

By thine eye of roguish blue 

And thy crisp locks' sunny hue — 

By thy shining, potent arrows, 

And thy Mother Venus' sparrows — 

Hasten, god of elfin guile! 

Aid me with thy choicest wile! 



Through the targe of her white breast 
Be thy keen sweet j avelin . pressed — 
Whisper softly to the ear 
Glamor maidens love to hear, 
And let those low echoes be 
Burdened with the name of me. 
Love, the ancient and the young, 
I thine honors oft have sung! 
179 



180 INVOCATION TO LOVE 

I, in sonnet and in story, 
Oft have tuned thine infant glory: — 
What though Time with churlish hand 
Poureth fast my shining sand, 
And my kindly summer time 
Blighteth with his early rime, 
Love, thou still hast been to me 
An adored deity! 

Lo, anew thy red fires start 
On the altar of my heart! 
Fast the breath of passion slips 
Forth of the portal of my lips. 
All her vagrant fancies guiding 
Past the lures of youth's providing, 
Lead her, conqueror of charms, 
Captive to these longing arms! 

Then will I thy praise renew ; 
Thou shalt keep my homage true; 
Crown me now thy child of fortune 
And I thee no more importune! 
Come, thou hourly heaven-descending, 
With the gift that hath no ending, 
Though her melting spirit shine, 
Make the radiant maiden mine ! 



MY LADY FROM THE SEA 

THE Lady from the Sea! a name 
To charm the listening air; 
A title buoyant, winged for fame, 

Mysterious, debonair; 
It rings across the round of time 

In music pulsing free; — 
A breath from far Romance's clime — 
"The Lady from the Sea." 

But now the phrase hath sweeter grown, 

And haunts my ravished ear ; 
It takes a tenderer, richer tone 

That none beside may hear; 
The tocsin of an ampler hope 

Where Faith shall bend the knee; 
Within one fond heart's larger scope, 

My Lady from the Sea! 

My Lady from the Sea she stands, 

And none may her gainsay; 
With true love dowry in her hands 

And in her eyes the play 
Of forces that unfold their charm 

Of light and power to me, 
Yet work no living creature harm — 

My Lady from the Sea. 
181 



1 82 MY LADY FROM THE SEA 

The rhythm of the ocean wind 

Is pulsing through her heart; 
The glint of waves that plastic bind 

All lands across the chart, 
With something of dawn's tender grace 

In her clear eyes I see; 
Or sunset's glamor lights her face — 

My Lady from the Sea. 

I watch the endless waters flow 

Beneath the eternal sky; 
I view the tall ships come and go 

With new awakened eye; 
She stands beside me and her voice 

Doth with all moods agree; 
She cries, "Rejoice, worn heart, rejoice!" 

My Lady from the Sea. 

Like her I come of Viking blood, 

Yet bred in landward town, 
I feared the mystery of the flood 

And shunned the deep sea crown; 
But now the breadth of wave and sky 

Lies bare to port and lee; — 
Ah, how the bannered clouds go by, 

My Lady from the Sea! 



MY SONNETEER 

'' I * WAS in a common German "Haus' 

JL Where one may buy a beer, 
(A "ham and" kind of place it was), 

I met my sonneteer. 
Among an unkempt, frowzy set, 

Who wore a tipsy leer 
And swaggered loud, 'twas first I met, 

I met my sonneteer. 

The scion of Euterpe sat 

In solitary cheer, 
A well-worn, weather-beaten hat 

Adorned my sonneteer; 
But yet he took his glass of "wet" 

As though 'twere Rhenish dear; 
Thus getting up his steam I met, 

I met my sonneteer. 

I knew him as the author of 

That poem called De Vere; 
'Twas mild as — well, a sucking dove, 

Or as my sonneteer. 
But now it's dead as "Capulet," 

A "book without a peer"; 
As dreary as his verse I met, 

I met my sonneteer. 

The Muse's livery on his back 
All threadbare did appear, 
183 



1 84 MY SONNETEER 

Its shiny seams did fray and crack 

Upon my sonneteer. 
'Twas with a feeling of regret, 

And with a sort of fear 
His lot might soon be mine, I met, 

I met my sonneteer. 

What use for him Fate had in store 

Was not exceeding clear; 
For poetasters grow galore 

Like to my sonneteer. 
And Fortune sends her "Kind regret" 

To many such a year; 
I thought, "the world will soon forget, 

Forget my sonneteer." 

But ah, the Gods had care of him 

Most gracious-wise I hear; 
A wealthy widow took a whim 

And wed my sonneteer. 
He wrote the dame a canzonet 

Upon her eye or ear; 
A Muse of some account! I met, 

I met my sonneteer. 

'Twas at the big Fitz-Boodle ball, 

The grandest of the year, 
While strolling through the supper hall 

I met my sonneteer; 
He looked as though a dun or debt 

Ne'er once had come him near; 
A-sipping Pommery Sec I met, 

I met my sonneteer! 

And as the fashion is, he now 
His head will highly rear; 



MY SONNETEER 185 

To friends of old he'll slightly bow 

My purse-proud sonneteer. 
At bon-ton clubs he's quite a pet, 

Is booked for a "career"; 
He's changed indeed, but he is yet, 

Is yet — a sonneteer! 



SONG FOR THE EMPIRE STATE 

THE mightiest of the sisters that form our native land, 
The bulwark of our promise by lake and ocean spanned, 
Nine million sons of freemen, tried men of mart and field, 
In one accord are voicing the triumph of her shield. 

The golden grain is ours and ours the fruitful vine; 

Above our vales and mountains the stars of empire 
shine ; 
The product of the woodland, the harvest of the lea, 

Pour down our roads and rivers to lake and town and 
sea. 

Flow forth, thou stately banner, upon the westering gale, 
That flaunts her song of triumph o'er every hill and 
vale; 

From where one mighty city holds sovereign state to-day, 
To mine and farm and forest, to hill and cape and bay! 

Yet fairer than the pageant of mountain, dale and sea, 
Is that free plighted tribute, O Lord of Hosts, to Thee ! 

Thine is the cause and promise, thine is the law and rule, 
That shapes the church and forum, that moulds the 
home and school. 

Thou gateway of the nation, the constant tribute pours 
From lands beneath the dawning, to these enfranchised 
shores ; 
Hold up the ancient emblem *' to show to after time 

How from the slender seedling has grown the tree 
sublime ! 
* The arms of New York State. 

186 



A SONG OF HOPE 

DEAR heart, the clouds of even 
Will fade away at morn, 
And with the sun of heaven 

New life and light be born; 
Then do not now despair, 
Nor live of hope forlorn; 
The cloud that came with even 
Will pass away at morn. 

Let us be constant still 

Through all life's care and cark, 
Bearing a cheerful will 

Though all around be dark; 
The sun's behind the cloud 

Though here his beams are shorn; 
The cloud that came with even 
Will pass away at morn. 

Take Hope unto your bosoms, 

All ye sad sons of care; 
Her brow is wreathed with blossoms 

That perfume lives of prayer; 
Gather her to your hearts, 

All ye of faith forlorn; 
The cloud that came with even 
Will pass away at morn. 



187 



CRADLE SONG 

{Translated from the French of Madame Valmore) 

IF baby sleep he'll see 
The busy bumble bee 
With the honey 'neath her thigh 
Dancing 'tween the earth and sky. 

If baby sleep in bed 

An angel rosy red 

(None else sees him without light) 

Down will come and say "good-night." 

The Virgin full of grace 

Down to his sweet face, 

If he'll quiet be, will bend 

And long time in talk will spend. 

"If my child love me," 

God to himself says he, 

"I love that child who'll sleep 

Make him golden dreams to keep. 

"Eyes to close prepare! 
When he's said his prayer, 
He shall see my gardens grow 
With the brightest flowers that blow. 
188 



CRADLE SONG 189 

"Angel hands down press 
And smooth his long night dress! 
And let whitest down be shed 
Where he rests his sleeping head ! 

"Brood ye wings above! 
Like the turtle dove, 
From his eyes my sun to keep 
When he wakens from his sleep ! 

"While he travels far 

In my cloudy car, 

Let him, whensoe'er he deems, 

Drink my milk that flows in streams! 

"Open to his call 

Pearl and amber hall! 

He while sleeping shall partake 

Of my precious diamond cake! 

"Broider ye his sail, 
Stars so bright and pale! 
When he sets his little boat 
On my azure lake afloat ! 

"Waves be clearer soon 
Than the shining moon! 
While my fish with silver flakes 
In the changing deep he takes! 

"But I would he sleep 
And in slumber keep, 
Like the birds in downy hush 
In their houses built of rush! 



igo CRADLE SONG 

"If, an hour gone by 
Still they hear him cry, 
Everywhere they'd say abroad 
That child's disobeying God!" 

"Echo down the street 
Would the news repeat, 
Saying, as the hour flies, 
'Hark, I hear a child that cries!' 

"And his mother dear 

In the night severe, 

Won't keep singing very long 

To that naughty child her song! 

"Should he cry and fret 

For daybreak in pet, 

From her lamb who won't obey 

Maybe she will run away. 

"Or then she may flee 

Through the roof, maybe; 

Angry at his cries, alack! 

Off she'll go and won't come back! 

"Wander where he may 
None will say 'good-day!' 
And I say that child unwise 
Will not look on Paradise! 

"Yes! but if he's still, 

The Blessed Virgin will 

To his sweet face downward bend, 

And long time in talk will spend!" 



FRENCH FORMS 



FRENCH FORMS 

These blooms of song in minstrel time 
Sprang from Provence's genial clime; 
Fair as in Ronsard's lovers' lay 
The rare exotics flower to-day, 
Crowning de Banville's courtly prime. 

As at the play the facile mime 

Shows worth, love, chivalry, and crime, — 

Change to all tints of fancy's play 
These blooms of song. 

Though here the stubborn English rhyme 
Curbs the Chant Royal's tread sublime, 

The Rondeau courts an English day; 

The Ballade's tendrils bend and sway 
'Neath northern oak as southern lime, 
These blooms of song! 



THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 

{Chant Royal) 

ALL earthly state doth wither and decay; 
Nor Pride, Wealth, Splendor, Loveliness, nor Might, 
May in its course the stroke of Ruin stay, 

As dreams they fade and vanish out of sight. 
Perpetual change! the beggar and the king 
Each turn to mould, and from their ashes spring 

Conceptions for new life; o'er Xerxes' hall 

Deep sands are drifting; lions nightly call 
Across the waste where Babylon proud and strong 

Towered to Heaven; yet safe from Ruin's thrall 
They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 



What is the conqueror's laurel? Where the sway 

Of Caesars with their purple robes bedight? 
Like to a breath they came — they passed away 

Like torches flashed across the breast of night; 
However so mighty, Time's remorseless wing 
Sweeps them along — of them scarce anything 

Is left or known; — the centuries downward haul 

Their palaces — the ivy on the wall 
Hides all their wrecks of pride; oblivion long 

Wraps crown and sceptre, throne and sumptuous pall; 
They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 

193 



194 THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 

Where are the lovely forms of olden day — 
Proud Cleopatra's charms, all dusky bright, 

Helen's enrapturing beauty, Lais gay? 
Alas! frail Beauty first doth suffer blight. 

The rose blooms forth; to-day our plaudits ring, 

To-morrow, and the wanton world doth fling 
Its withered joy aside! In ruin fall 
Firm arch, proud plinth, and storied capital; 

The eternal hills themselves shall suffer wrong: 
Pure and inviolate from earth's changes all 

They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 

Youth with his garland takes his joyous way, 
Pledging the future with a proud delight; 

How veiled is soon the glory of his day — 

The years speed on and Time asserts his right! 

Changes no longer new enchantments bring ; 

All niggard now of cheer and welcoming, 
The Seasons offer cups of rue and gall, 
And weeds for favors; round earth's rolling ball 

Youth creeps to age; bound as by iron thong, 
Blind fortune sweeps him onward past recall : — 

They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 

Yes, song survives! except the inspired lay 
Nothing of man's is stable; earth takes flight 

Itself; in vain we would for respite pray; 
Time soon or late our titles doth indict. 

Awhile around the past our memories cling, 

Awhile for loved ones lost we're sorrowing, 

Then Death our names doth in his tablet scrawl, 
And we are past the heart-ache and the brawl, 

Life's hopes and fears and Pain's envenomed prong; 
The armor-bearer sinks beside the Saul; — 

They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 



THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG 195 



L ENVOI 

Friend, while to age and dusty death we crawl, 
Till Time lays by his scythe and iron maul, 

Songs are Heaven's choicest gifts; above the throng 
Abiding — o'er the mighty and the small — 

They shine alway — the saintly stars of Song! 



THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 

{Chant Royal) 

THERE dawns new gladness over holt and dale, 
A rich prelude of melody and light; 
The mating birds upon their branches hail 

The regal morn — all things to joy invite. 
The velvet grass is freshening o'er the lea; 
The bloom is frothing over bush and tree; 

The earth doth set her mourning weeds aside, 

And flushes, joyous as a new-made bride, 
Beneath the gaze of her glad lord and king, 

The bridegroom sun, all warm and ardent-eyed ;— 
Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 



No snow whirl drives before the billowy gale; 

Gone are the tokens of decay and blight; 
Upon slant wing the twittering swallows sail, 

Flashing their pinions lined with flecked white; 
Nature stands crowned in all her majesty; 
The heavens glow pure as a pellucid sea; 

The soul with an intenser flame supplied, 

Grows warmed, enlightened, and revivified, 
Till all its heart doth to the season sing, 

Partaking Nature's generative pride; — 
Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 

196 



THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 197 

The burnished beetle in his jointed mail, 

Wheeling across the fields in whirring flight, 

Drums for the concert warblers of the vale 
His overture to Summer's queenly might. 

The blithe grasshopper from his bended knee 

Vaults forth; the cricket chirrups loud in glee; 
The dragonflies across the champaign glide, 
Their filmy oars transparent stretching wide; 

The cooing dove flushes his iris ring, 

Wooing his mate who coyly steps aside; — 

Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 

The ghostly beeches past the orchard pale 

Are donning ruffled cloaks all emerald bright; 

The vine begins to clamber o'er the rail; 
The timid violets now are not affright, 

But to the season's genial gaiety 

They venture forth and make their beauties free; 
The hardy crocus to the north allied, 
Stands bravely up in raiment purple-pied; 

The daisy soon her shield will forward fling, 
The vaunted champion of the Summer-tide ; — 

Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 

This is Love's season — now he doth not fail 

Of hearts; no mark escapes his cunning sleight; 
Nothing can his keen arrows countervail, 

When Spring hath wound her clarion on the height. 
Nature's warm charms woo Youth voluptuously, 
He may not from her flowery bondage flee; 

For like a mistress true, companion tried, 

Her gentle suasion may not be denied, 
And with a thousand arts of welcoming 

She lures him to her fragrant blooming side; — 
Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 



ig8 THE RENASCENCE OF SPRING 

l'envoi 

Nature, true teacher, still be thou my guide! 
Never by me be thy rich charms decried; 

Still to my heart thy choicest blessings bring! 
Ride on supreme! in joyful triumph ride; — 

Maternal Earth rejoices with the Spring! 



THE COMING AGE 

{Chant Royal) 

AROUND the wastes of Tyranny and War, 
Athwart the clouds of Ignorance and Blight, 
There falls a splendor from the heavenly shore, 

A strong archangel standing in the light; 
The angel's name is Peace — seraphic gleams 
Adorn his robes and from his aureole streams 

The gladness of the Morning; fair on fair 

The lustres kindle up the pulsing air 
And fling their radiance over every clime; — 

Lo, Love will come with laurels round his hair! 
So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 



Gone is the bigot's wrath — the open door 
Of Concord doth on golden hinge invite 
All nations; on Thought's steep and boundless shore 

What leagues of Prescience lengthen on the sight! 

The glory poets outlined in their dreams 

To-day on us in amplest beauty beams; 

The triumphs Hope to think would hardly dare, 
The Sciences unceasing hands prepare; 

The pageant Hours in pomp of trophied prime 

Upon their heads their wreaths of conquest wear; — 

So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time! 

199 



200 THE COMING AGE 

Now sovereign Plenty hath unlocked her store; 

Forth unto Want she holds her harvest bright ; 
Around her foaming vats and threshing-floor 

Dance jocund fays in gay and festal flight; 
With bounteous wealth the fair-hued future teems, 
And unto joy the sons of grief redeems, 

Bringing to Labor ease and balm for Care; 

While Love shall all the poor man's burdens share, 
While Freedom marching up her paths sublime 

Shall lead to wider views and clearer air; — 
So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 

Fair Culture rules where Plenty held before, 

With hyacinthine locks and brow of white ; 
Even Pride himself shall yield to her devoir; 

She stands the queen of Progress and of Might; 
She calms and quells the discord of extremes; 
Worth has her heart and virtue she esteems; 

All hearts and minds are open to her prayer; 

Her blooms most fragrant are, most costly rare; 
She loves the lute, she loves the poet's rhyme; 

No earthly beauty can with hers compare ; — 
So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 

The Olden Ages all their treasures pour 
Into the lap of Learning, at whose right 

The baffled fiends of Prejudice deplore, 

While Plenty, Culture, Freedom, with delight 

Wax mightier, while the golden sunburst seems 

To consecrate the page of Wisdom's themes, 
To track the dark-faced passions to their lair, 
Who soon in chains shall into bondage fare, 

'Til Love shall take the cruel sword from Crime; 
Can mind conceive or tongue such bliss declare! 

So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 



THE COMING AGE 201 



LENVOI 



Take heart, ye doubting and despondent! there 
Grows Truth where Love has birth; — far up the stair 

Of Progress shall enfranchised manhood climb ; 
Yea, Faith shall wed with Reason everywhere; — 

So flushed with promise dawns the Coming Time ! 



THE ADVANTAGE OF LOVE 

{Ballade) 

TO Philosophy's heights he could soar, 
Could decipher the stones of Copan ; 
He was versed in Rabbinical lore 
From Beersheba even to Dan; 
Ten tongues he could j abber and scan ; 
Like Noah's adventurous dove 

He had travelled from Maine to Japan, — 
But he lacked the advantage of Love. 

He pondered Zoology o'er; 

He collected the pot and the pan; 
Over fossils he'd study and pore 

And could tell when the fusion began ; 

From a star to an Indian fan 
He had learning all others above; 

His mind took a world in its. span, — 
He lacked the advantage of Love. 

His soul could like Kepler's explore 

The deeps of creation, he ran 
The gauntlet of pedant and bore 

And the straight-forehead orthodox clan; 

On a pulpit he beat rataplan 
With a hand that was soft as a glove ; 

He could pray and palaver, and plan, — 
He lacked the advantage of Love. 
202 



THE ADVANTAGE OF LOVE 203 



L ENVOI 



Prince, though you win all you can, 
Though Fortune continues to shove ; 

You've missed the true scope of a man 
If you lack the advantage of Love. 



UNDER MARLBORO' 

{Ballade) 

WE'VE drummed all the French out of Lille; 
We'll soon have them drubbed out of Flanders, 
When the trumpets of Marlboro' peal, 
'Tis "on!" with our tough salamanders, 
King Louis' proud pets and his panders 
May carve new estates in Cayenne; 

Let them call on their prince of commanders; 
Pouf! Here's to their Marshal Turenne! 

Tallard and Villars have turned heel, 

They ran like a pack of train-banders; 
The Johnny Crapauds, how they squeal 

As we charge under Mordaunt and Saunders. 

Messieurs, you are gallant Leanders, 
Your vocation's in Paris, and then 

The Pompadour dotes upon slanders; — 
Pouf! Here's to your Marshal Turenne! 

You may trim us in farce, vaudeville, 
And dub us gourmands and outlanders; 

We'll play you to fire and steel 

And the stiffest of British right-handers. 

You imagined us Hessians and Pandours; 

Mes braves, you mistook us, and when 
The Seine is your last of Scamanders, — 
Pouf! Here's to your Marshal Turenne! 
204 



UNDER MARLBORO' 205 



L ENVOI 



Your sheep and champagne to the branders, 
Or, Louis, we'll claim them again! 

For prog we are stoutest of standers, 
Pouf ! Here's to your Marshal Turenne! 



BALLADE OF THE SEA-SERPENT 

MYTHOLOGY'S knocked all awry; 
Gods, demi-gods deader than punk; 
To the Fauns and the Fairies good-bye! 
Each Dryad has packed up her trunk; 
Nymph, Naiad, and Oread funk; 
The spook has gone off in a_pet; 

The Satyr is dead or dead drunk; — 
The Sea-Serpent nourishes yet! 



The Mermaid has gotten so shy 

She siestas all day in her bunk; 
The Triton is piping his eye; 

The Nereids are all of them sunk; 

The Gnomes to earth's bowels have slunk; 
The Pixies have paid their last debt; 

The Nixies are "nixy," non nunc; — 
The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 



No witch is now sweeping the sky, 

The last one was burned for her spunk; 
One cannot on devils rely, 

Although we've the word of the monk; 

In Time's nostrils the Centaur has stunk; 
No hobgoblin or bogle is met; 

Vanderdecken has flown with his junk; — 
The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 
206 



BALLADE OF THE SEA-SERPENT 207 



L ENVOI 



Prince, clever headed or lunk, 

Time soon will your glories forget; 

You'll down to oblivion plunk; — 
The Sea-Serpent flourishes yet! 



BALLADE OF THE TAILOR 

WHATE'ER philosophers may say, 
Or men of texts and tariffs prose, 
In toga, tea-cup times, to-day, 
The greatest social fact is clothes. 
Come good or bad, come friends or foes, 
The wise or simple, great or small, 

Where'er the wave of culture flows, 
The Tailor, he is King of all. 



The days of plumes and mantles gay, 

Or ruffles, patches, furbelows, 
Have like foam-bubbles passed away, 

Vanished the age of wits and beaux; 

The gallant mincing on his toes, 
Both Nelly's grace and Ninon's thrall, 

Have passed like pageants of the Rose,- 
The Tailor, he was king of all. 



Now dandies dress in black or gray; 

They sport no more the silken hose; 
The pantaloon has come to stay; 

No dress shirt now a ruffle knows ; 

A "congress" is a flock of crows; 
The broidered scarf is now a shawl ; 

But still, howe'er the fashion goes, 
The Tailor, he is king of all. 
208 



BALLADE OF THE TAILOR 209 

l'envoi 

Friend, while upon the Stage you pose 
As fool or knave, as saint or Saul, — 

In dress you mask or you disclose; 
The Tailor, he is king of all! 



THE SERVANT OF THE MUSE 

{Ballade) 

OH, callow youths, ye vaporing lovers all, 
Who pay your vows at some fair Circe's shrine, 
If ye to one entrancing maid a thrall 

Your ease of mind and sportive joys resign, — 
If ye for her your liberties confine, 
And all your former comfortings refuse, 

Your case is not so desperate as is mine, — 
Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse! 

Ye middle-aged, who live false Fortune's thrall, 
Who fondly deem her smile will constant shine; 

Ye who beneath her ruthless chariot fall, 
Or for her gilded toys and bubbles pine, 
Your ear to a more hapless wight incline, 

Who to a more capricious mistress sues; 

Be thankful of your wage and drain your wine, — 

Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse ! 

Old men, who throng to Wisdom's spacious hall, 

And worship white-robed Science, the divine; 
Who dig for light at Death's dark barrier wall, 

And con life's mystic precepts line by line; 

Straining your anxious vision for a sign 
How to unravel cunning Nature's ruse; 

If she be coy ye need not wince nor whine, — 
Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse! 



THE SERVANT OF THE MUSE 211 

l'envoi 

All ye smug Strephons, who prosaic dine 
Upon the viands which your Phyllis stews, 

Eat and be thankful for your chops and chine, — 
Ye know not what it means to serve the Muse ! 






THE BOGEY OF ENGLISH FREE TRADE 
{Ballade) 

THE tariff's a dear little pet, 
The child of Republican lout; 
Protection its nurse (that is, wet), 
Just now is much flustered, put out; 
Monopolist, run with the clout! 
Manufacturer, stand for its maid! 

And fright away megrim and pout 
With the bogey of English free trade. 

Oh, swaddle it, dandle it yet, 

Ye grave senatorial rout! 
And teach it its tare and its tret, 

And to keep clean its snub little snout. 

Don't let depraved Democrats flout 
It's failings, or make it afraid, 

But after its enemies scout 
With the bogey of English free trade. 

Brother Jonathan's house is upset; 

The mischief! What's all this about? 
What caucusing furor, and fret! 

What a headshaking, shiver and shout! 

"The country'll be ruined, I vow it!" 
"Let the surplus in pensions be paid !" 

"Put the tariff's revisers to rout 
With the bogey of English free trade!" 



THE BOGEY OF ENGLISH FREE TRADE 213 



LENVOI 



Ye sons, macaroni and kraut! 

Ye wielders of dibble and spade! 
They'd gammon you, make not a doubt, 

With the bogey of English free trade! 



BERANGER'S SONGS 
{Rondeau) 

BERANGER'S songs— ah, few to-day 
Can such inspiring measures sway; 
What muse can match the lilting strain 
That dances down his sweet refrain? 
Come — name his rivals! where are they? 

Around his theme wit's flashes play; 
He's France! in him France lives for aye; 
They glow like sunshine dipped in rain, 
Beranger's songs! 

The modern muse is seldom gay, 
Infrequent grows the heart-felt lay, 

The voice of passion breathes in pain; 

O come, ye gladsome days again! 
Like stars they gleam along my way, 

Beranger's songs! 



214 



MY TRICKSY MUSE 

{Rondeau) 

MY tricksy Muse! full oft you play 
Me shy, when I'd fain have you stay; 
The most coquettish maid I know 
Are you, and though I court you, lo, 
You're off for all I do or say! 

Well, come or go howe'er you may; 
Assertive, tender, grave or gay, 

Yet never false, malicious grow, 
My tricksy Muse! 

The critic, waiting for his prey, 
May scoff you, with my scorn I pay ; 

And should all wheels on Fortune's row 
Spin by us, we'll no favors owe; 
Afoot we'll travel life's highway, 
My tricksy Muse! 



215 



A RUSTIC SCENE 
(Rondeau) 

A RUSTIC scene, ma chere ami? 
Well, first a vine-flowered canopy; 
A garden here — an orchard yon — 
A fountain and a sloping lawn — 
Some chairs — the china set for tea. 

Yes, something more — ah, there must be 
A hedge in bloom — a willow tree — 

Thus far you think I've fairly drawn 
A rustic scene? 

A lake far distant — down the lea 

A white-robed, gold-haired, winsome she, 

Holding in ribbon leash a fawn; 

Her smile, suggestive of the dawn — 
A young Aurora; you, ma mie; — 

A rustic scene! 



216 



A PERFECT FRIEND 

{Rondeau) 

A PERFECT friend, Miss Guenevere, 
Come tell me who that is ? 'Tis queer 
A clever scholar such as you 
Never that mental portrait drew, 
And you thumb Shakespeare every year! 

Heart, culture, grace, a voice of cheer, 
Wit not too gay nor yet severe, 

Tact, talent, sweetness, all are due 
A perfect friend. 

A woman? surely! Men appear 

Less sympathetic, earnest, clear, 
Resourceful — and I know but few 
Of your sex, even, kind and true. 

Look in the mirror — you? yes, dear, 
A perfect friend ! 



217 



THE HEART'S VOYAGE 

(Pantoum) 

MY all too trustful day is o'er, 
Grey clouds draw darkling o'er the sea; 
Youth's all enchanting tropic shore 
Fades slowly o'er life's shadowed lea. 

Grey clouds grow darkling o'er the sea 
From out the deepening skies of time; 

Fades slowly o'er life's shadowed lea 
The freshness of life's summer clime. 

From out the deepening skies of time — 
The storm-wings veering down in force, — 

The freshness of life's summer clime 
I leave, upon my out-bound course. 

The storm-wings veering down in force, — 
I know not where they drive me on; 

I leave, upon my out-bound course, 

Bright hopes, full-blossomed at the dawn. 

I know not where they drive me on — 
The dark waves stretch an endless waste; 

Bright hopes, ye blossomed at the dawn — 
Roses, that once Faith's garden graced! 

The dark waves stretch an endless waste ; 

One star beams through the gloom above; 
Roses, that once Faith's garden graced, 

Ye all were consecrate to Love! 
218 



THE HEART'S VOYAGE 219 

One star beams through the gloom above, 

The pale, pure star of Poesy; 
Ye all were consecrate to Love, 

Fair flowers that bloomed so tenderly! 

The pale, pure star of Poesy! 

My one blest guide when night is drear; 
Fair flowers that bloomed so tenderly, 

Would now ye smiled upon me here! 

My one blest guide when night is drear; 

Her light still cheers my wayward soul; 
Would now thou smiledst upon me here, 

Dear star of Love — the billows roll! 

Her light still cheers my wayward soul, 
Lend too, O Love, thy steadfast shine! 

Dear star of Love, the billows roll! 

Why cheer'st thou not this heart of mine? 

Lend too, O Love, thy steadfast shine! 

Then might the white-walled haven gleam; 
Why cheer'st thou not this heart of mine, 

Sweet guide of each night-opening dream? 

Then might the white-walled haven gleam, 

Calm port of rest, fulfilled desires; 
Sweet guide of each night-opening dream, 

Thy charm would gild its lofty spires! 

Calm port of rest, fulfilled desires — 

It were a paradise with thee! 
Thy charm would gild its lofty spires; 

Where may I that bright haven see? 



220 THE HEART'S VOYAGE 

It were a paradise with thee! 

Ah, how the cloudy streamers fly! 
Where may I that bright haven see? 

How swift my light bark glideth by! 

Ah, how the cloudy streamers fly! 

My all too trustful day is o'er; 
How swift my light bark glideth by 

Youth's all-enchanting tropic shore! 



O SOVEREIGN LOVE 

(Rondeau) 

O SOVEREIGN LOVE ! there is no fear or stress 
May shake thy follower's rapt devotedness; 
Heaven hath no bliss surpassing this of thine; 
Thy favor makes the face of care to shine 
And clothes the cruel with thy tenderness! 

Lean from thy heaven! the wearied spirit bless, 
Fair youthful god, to whom all hearts confess; 

Let not thy servants unrequited pine, 
O Sovereign Love! 

Thy arms round lives of earth born labor press 
And soothe them with thy pure and soft caress; 

Warm the dull spirit with thy flame divine; 

To all who pray thee straight thy joy consign; 
Yea, banish pain — bring sweet forgetfulrtess, 
O Sovereign Love! 



221 



THE VISION OF THE DIS DEBAR 

{Villanelle) 

THROUGH the visions of the nights 
What is this my fancy sees? 
'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 

Oh, of all the awesome sights 

That do oft the senses freeze 
Through the visions of the nights; 

This one most my spirit frights — 

This one surely takes the cheese ! 
'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 

All ye gamesome Harlem wights, 

Saw ye ever limbs like these 
Through the visions of the nights? 

There behind the platform lights 

Nightly doth fair Cupid wheeze; 
'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 

Still she haunts me, queen of sprites, 

Sighing like a gusty breeze 
Through the visions of the nights — 
'Tis the Dis Debar in tights! 



222 



E 



TRIOLETS 

VERY age has its craze, 
Our day has the maddest; 

'Tis a bric-a-brac phase. 

Every age has its craze, 

But of all work in "clays" 
This "crockery's" the "saddest." 

Every age has its craze. 
Our day has the maddest. 



Since Bellamy's book 

The world's gone demented. 

All's "social outlook" 

Since Bellamy's book; 

The co-operative cook 

Is the last thing invented. 

Since Bellamy's book 

The world's gone demented. 

Nina pouted when I said 

All her sex are like Pandora; 
But I straightway pleased the maid 

When I called her my Aurora. 
Flatter well the fair, ye men, 

If you'd have your faith undoubted. 
Tell them not the truth, as when 

Nina pouted. 

223 



QUATRAINS 



THE QUATRAIN 

As thru a prism strains the circling sky, 
Packed in four lines how much of life may lie ; 
Yet flashing forth its radiance down the years ; — 
A diamond flinging pent fire to the spheres. 



THE UNIVERSAL LIFE 

THE mountain's brooks divide, yet from one source 
They plenish all the fruitful fields below; 
So from the central, sole, eternal force, 

The strong, life-giving streams of Nature flow. 



STANDING-ROOM 

"A place to stand, and I will move the world!" 
So cried the wise-browed Syracusan seer; 

Whereon to stand ? Ay, had we that, unfurled 
Across the age what banners Truth would rear! 



THE WORLD-MAELSTROM OF THE WEST 

Here seethes the o'erflow of Nations; from all shores 
Earth's human rivers mix in one embrace; 

Yet through this myriad-tided ocean pours 
The Gulf-stream of the Anglo-Saxon race. 



KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM 

Knowledge is Wisdom's hand-maid; oft her gown 
The servant dons — a masquerade complete; 

Then goes she aping Wisdom up and down, 
And few there are who recognize the cheat. 
227 



228 QUATRAINS 



PENUEL 

Nothing of value comes unearned to man ; 

The storm that scathes, roots yet more deep the trunk; 
All striving tells in earnest Nature's plan; 

Still wrest the blessing though your thigh be shrunk. 



EVOLUTION 

Soul is developed Nature; from the sod 

Grows soul-stuff; Nature's but a thrifty wife; 

The field-flowers claim us kindred with a nod, 
And mothers kiss the babes that sap their life. 



LOVE 

Love is the rose of life, its natural zest, 
Its daily bourgeon woos the circling air; 

When Cupid plants it in some maid's warm breast, 
Its perfume doubles and 'tis doubly fair. 



ON CERTAIN ACADEMICIANS 

Their skill is all mosaic; rule of thumb 

Guides every groping hand and squinting eye, 

Ask for imagination — they are dumb; 

Point them to truth and, lo, they choose a lie! 



QUATRAINS 229 

OLD AND NEW ART 

Nature was with the souls of olden time, 

They loved her, spoused her, were by her misled; 

We are like husbands long outpast their prime, 
We know her moods — but passion now is dead. 



TO CERTAIN CRITICS 

Woodpecker-like, intent on drilling holes, 
You seek nor leaf nor blossom on the tree ; 

And cuckoo-like you echo other souls, 

And hatch your changelings for a beggar's fee. 



THE BASIC FORCE 

Rhythm must vibrate through the poet's mind 
Ere he can urge his verse to throb and glow, 

And feeling mount upon the spirit's wind 
Before the master-player draws his bow. 



THE CONVENTIONAL PARSON 

Even the cholera is scarce his peer; 

The droning pulpit prig, how dread is he! 
One lays your body breathless on the bier; 

The other plagues your soul and takes a fee. 



230 QUATRAINS 

MIDAS AND COMPANY 

Midas, 'tis said, turned all he touched to gold; 

"Wise act!" we cry, "how few his worthy peers!" 
His type how well preserved! It grows not old; 

But what a price to pay for Ass's Ears! 



CAVE CANEM! 

Xantippe worsted Socrates, and few 

Petruchios conquer where are hosts undone. 

Even cunning Marlborough could not curb his shrew; 
The moral? Lovers, read it as you run! 



PEGASUS AT PASTURE 

Pope, Milton, Byron, bankrupt poets these; 

The rustics now have taken all the trade; 
Long live the Hoosier bards! down on your knees 

To Cracker slang and Yankee gasconade! 



ORTHODOX LIBERALISM 

The Troy of creeds is down — the Greeks are in ; 

The new ^neas flees the falling wrack ; 
Seeking new lands he staggers from the din, 

Anchises and his gods athwart his back. 



QUATRAINS 231 

THE POETS AND MAMMON 

Poets, like Swabia's free Knights of old, 

Build proud and high their castles in the air;. 

Then Mammon comes, invests their straitened hold, 
And Rudolf-like demands allegiance there. 



SONNETS AND SONNETEERS 

Most rhymesters now are jewelers, and would fain 
Their deft-carved cherry-stones for cameos sell; 

Like amateurs, who play the moody Dane, 

The counterfeit may pass — not "passing well." 



THE SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET 

Leave the strict mould to Petrarch's plastic hand, 
And frame your verse to Shakespeare's form divine; 

In that the sweetest, loftiest thoughts expand; 
The brave "fourteener" comes of English line. 



POETS AND POETASTERS 

The hoarsest rhymesters, blundering in the dark, 
Most clamorous are for an immortal name; 

Still croaks and puffs the frog ; the thrush and lark 
Are not inflated with desire for fame. 



232 QUATRAINS 

ON THE SPIRITUAL BARNUM 

Were I compelled to bide a donkey's bray, 

I'd choose a time the beast's turned out to grass; 

I'd never of my own volition stay 
To hear a roof reverberate an ass. 



TRUTH 

Truth is the lode-star of free thought — nor can 
He earn its guidance who is thrall to pelf; 

Nor shall he gain perspective view of man 
Until his shadow shortens to himself. 



TO SOME NEW CRITICS 

"Scott is no master!" no, my dainty soul, 
Weaving your cobweb verse or etching prose? 

You new time Della-Cruscan !— -centuries roll, — 
He's Britain's Homer; who are you? who knows? 



FANCY 

The chord of Fancy is the slenderest string 
In rich Imagination's varied lyre; 

And yet some novice hand might make it ring 
Above the chorus of the veteran choir. 



QUATRAINS 233 

SELF-KNOWLEDGE 

Most men desire yet fear to stand revealed 

Unto themselves; when forced, aghast they stare, 

As captives, long from life and light concealed, 
Start at their shadows in the sunlit air! 



TRUE AND FALSE FAME 

No mushroom is true fame; its hardy shoot 
Springs not the seedless changeling of a night; 

The soft, sweep rasp is summer's briefest fruit; 
The firm-grained apple mellows with time's flight. 



BERANGER 

Like an aeolian harp his tense-drawn soul 
Echoes the varying voice of France's will; 

Oft as she breathes her joy or bitter dole, 

Those rhythmic, trembling heart-strings answer still. 



THE RULE OF RAPACITY 

The robber sea-kings' rule left traces here, 

Though not in mouldering cairns along our coast; 

Our Danes to-day in legal rapine rear 

The Raven — plundering with protecting host. 



234 QUATRAINS 

THE PROFLIGATE OF KINDNESS 

Yqu'd dwell respected? hold yourself aloof, 

Nor spread your cloak too freely for your friend; 

The kindest hearts win ever most reproof, 
And earn the ass's nettles in the end. 



TRAITS OF WOMEN 

Flout her who loves you and she grows more fond; 

Yield to her whims — she will your grace despise; 
She has no magnanimity beyond 

Her gift of patience and her partial eyes. 



THE INVINCIBLE SEX 

There is no armor 'gainst a woman's eyes; 

Excalibur could not foil her dextrous wit; 
And when her tears join forces with her sighs 

The doughtiest heroes are the hardest hit. 



THE CURSE OF THE COQUETTE 

There is no fool, however wise he be, 

Like him, the pensioner of a woman's smile; 

No tyrant lives so dead to ruth as she 

Who pillories hearts and poisons faith with guile. 



DOUBLE QUATRAINS 235 

ARTIFICIAL REFINEMENT 

The hot-house nurtured woman more and more 
Would make men slaves, her bears to dance at will ; 

Our Ninons know their business to the core, 
While o'er-exacting prudes die virgins still. 



WOMAN'S HEART 

Oh, miracle of mysteries, woman's heart! 

Misleading ever, even when meaning true; — 
As Gama's sailors conned the ancient chart, 

With risk and fear we steer our course by you. 



DOUBLE QUATRAINS 



LIFE 



Pilot, what gleam is that? What means that sounding 

Through the dim night afar? 
Soul, 'tis the breakers of the ocean pounding 

Against the harbor bar! 

Oh, helmsman, steer your bark by yon fixed beacon 

Against the swerving tide; 
Keep well your course, nor let your vigil weaken 

Till you in safety ride! 



236 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 



THE ILIAD 

From vast, unfathomed deeps of ages gone, 

Swelling in surge and gathering voice sublime, 

Crested with froth of legendary dawn, 

A lordly wave sweeps up the shores of time. 

Lo, how it roars through all the bays and creeks, 
Strewing its wealth of ocean treasures rare; 

Hark — now tall Hector thunders on the Greeks! 
Look — how Achilles shakes his shining hair! 



THE PRESS 

"Palladium of Liberties" 'tis called; 

The skillet-lid of faction might be writ ; 
The editorial clothesman stands installed 

To sell you mental garments that will fit. 

'Tis Argus and Briareus in one, 

And yet 'tis frailest of all things of power ; 
It quickens, brightens, searches like the sun, 

And changes ever with the changeful hour. 



DOUBLE QUATRAINS 237 



THE YEARS OF LIFE 



In happy Youth Time goes with lingering feet, 
And Hope, Life's herald, swiftly speeds before, 

But, as we age, Time's pace becomes more fleet, 
And Hope toils fainting or is seen no more. 



Thus Heaven's compassion gives to pilgrim man 
The brightest summer with the longest days, 

And crowds the waning year in narrowing span 
Down to the silent parting of the ways. 



HUMAN EXISTENCE 



Life is the sap-flow from the natal gloom, 
Combining, mingling each essential force ; 

The Soul is life's refined, consummate bloom, 

And Sense, the leaves, which are life's outer source. 



Mind is the pistil where Thought's pollen clings, 
Love is the perfume of the dewy hours; 

Genius, the bee with swift and patient wings 
Whom God hath sent to fertilize the flowers. 



238 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 



TRUTH 



Truth — what is Truth? Ah, yet the mystery stands 

Veiled in the tissues of Eternal Will; 
And, as of old, upon Arabian sands, 

The world asks Pilate's vexing question still. 



Yet inch by inch the drapery drops away 
And bares vast outlines of a shaped intent; 

Yet gleam on gleam springs up the brighter day, 
Till earth with heaven in Isis' smile is blent. 



SHAKESPEARE 



"Sweet Swan of Avon," one who loved him well — 

A rival of that gladiatorial day — 
Called our loved Shakespeare ; and no sweeter spell 

Than Shakespeare's ever held the world in sway. 



Nor yet a mightier — with a grace sublime 

The Greek had worshipped in his proudest year, 

He strikes the key-note of all after time, 
And shows all nature in a smile or tear! 



DOUBLE QUATRAINS 239 



THE HUMBLE-BEE 



He is the thriftiest of the Buccaneers 

Who sails to every port among the flowers, 

And gathers golden tribute and then steers 
To wassail it away in winter hours. 



And like the mightiest Tudor is his queen, 
Who in her hive presides o'er his increase, 

And sends him forth to scour the seas of green, 
The Gloriana of his war and peace. 



HOPE AND DESPAIR 



A ghastly crag, stark against lowering skies, 
Beneath whose brow black sullen water lies; 

One spectral tree upon it, barked and bare, 
Where a blind raven mopes — that is Despair. 



A vision in the desert's central grave, 

Where crystal waters gleam and palm-trees wave, 
A caravan beneath the burning cope, 

Expecting blest possession — this is Hope. 



240 DOUBLE QUATRAINS 



FAITH AND LOVE 



Faith like an eagle on aspiring wing 
Looks up undazzled to her God on high, 

Scorning the earth, ay, every earth-born thing, 
Beyond the pinnacle where her fledglings lie. 



But Love, as bravely pinioned, turns and keeps 
Her wings above us while the tempest raves, 

Like the white albatross, and, like her, sleeps 
Rocked on the inconstant bosom of the waves. 



PLEASURE AND JOY 



Pleasure, a sylph with gay transparent wings, 
Hath flattery's smile, and like a siren sings; 
But if you strive to bind the flitting sprite, 
She'll off and send you Sorrow out of spite. 



But Joy, her gentler sister, oft is found 
Musing in nooks and pacing holy ground; 
And oft a tender tear-drop dims her eye, 
And oft she breathes her rapture through a sigh. 



BALLADS 



CANADA TO ENGLAND 

WE come to your call, O Mother, great mother of stead- 
fast men ; 
The days of earth are darkened, the morrow beyond our 

ken; 
Stress of war is upon us, the star of Empire shines, 
A clouded and glimpsing beacon along the battle lines. 

But know by the God above us, by the tale of a thousand 

years, 
By the blood of our countless heroes, by the rain of our 

women's tears, 
By the faith in our past and future, wherever our standards 

fly, 

We pledge our souls to this service, are prepared in this 
cause to die. 

Do not forget, dear Mother, we have proved our faith of 

old; 
Those memories of pain and struggle have not in our hearts 

grown cold; 
Here in the homes they cherished, the fire that holds and 

strives 
Once warmed the breasts of our fathers, they suffered and 

gave their lives. 

On the dank rice fields of India, on the sun-scorched kopjed 

veldt, 
On the snow-swept hills of Crimea, our manhood was tried 

and felt; 

243 



244 CANADA TO ENGLAND 

From the times of Wolfe and Amherst to "Twelve," to the 

Transvaal days, 
We have lustred our country's annals, we have fought and 

earned your praise. 

Now in our prouder freedom, here in our fuller strength, 
Round every field and forest, through our great land's 

breadth and length, 
To every city and village, to every ranch and mine, 
Your call to the children echoes to fill the battle line. 

Far off the fisher hears it on the Banks of Newfoundland, 
The coasting trader hears it off Fundy's fog-bound strand, 
The lonely woodsman hears it on the rafts of Temiscaming, 
The call of the Mother in harness, "Bring me your thou- 
sands — bring !" 

We are coming, O Trident Wielder, we are coming ten 

thousand score; 
The seven-fold shield is lifted high on Valcartier's shore; 
The flag that tripped stern Cronje, the flag of a hundred 

fights, 
Is flying to-day for battle with the spirt of Queenstown 

Heights. 

To every shore of the British around the Seven Seas, 
The sons of the soil come trooping, their banners aslant the 

breeze; 
They will not fail you, Mother, their best are freely given ; 
With hearts for England's honor, with souls by Freedom 

shriven. 

Hail to the Three-Cross standard, with its streaming blood- 
red field! 

Hail to the bright-leaved Maple, hail to the Seven-fold 
Shield! . 



CANADA TO ENGLAND 245 

Hail to the stout Four Nations, Britons of blood renowned 
Who carry our old time prowess to the ocean's outmost 
bound. 

And hail to you, Mother England, proud mother of stal- 
wart men, 

As you sprang to front Napoleon, you are grasping the 
spear again. 

Hark, do you hear our trumpets ! as in the past days of pain, 

We march to strike for Freedom, to strike for the whole 
world's gain. 

Never the English spirit sheathes the reluctant sword, 
Till the reaping days are ended for the Harvest of the Lord; 
Woe to the proud oppressor who follows ambition's lure 
To the lair of the angry lion, the Lion of Agincourt. 

And shall the God-flaunting Teuton shake in our face his 

gyves, 
Trample the weaker nations and mangle our babes and 

wives ? 
Roar "Deutschland iiber Alles" to the torch-fed cities glow; 
In the name of the Great Protector, in the name of Nelson, 

No! 

Lead out, lead out, Brave Mother, for the sake of sacked 

Louvain ! 
Give us our own Smith-Dorrien, yield us the van again! 
By our pledge to martyred Belgium, in the cause of harried 

France, 
Sound the unbending onset, let the bugle scream, Advance ! 



THE BONNET BLUE 

THE day is done, the gloaming hour 
For lovers' trysts is near, 
And she hath left her turret bower 

To meet her cavalier. 
She is the daughter of the earl 

For whom the counties sue, 
And he's the grandson of a churl, 
And wears a bonnet blue. 

Oh, sweeter is the whispered vow 

For what might come between. 
No likelier youth than he, I trow, 

Was e'er in greenwood seen. 
No grace than hers is more divine, 

No heart more fond and true; 
She lets the lordly suitors pine 

To pledge a Bonnet Blue. 

She thinks upon her lofty state 

And drops a pensive tear; 
She looks upon her lowly mate 

And she is straight in cheer. 
He holds her in his strong embrace, 

He plights his troth anew; 
She dreads not donger nor disgrace 

Beside her Bonnet Blue. 
246 



THE BONNET BLUE 247 

Next morn the bower maidens wait 

In vain their mistress' call; 
The servers stand with cup and plate, 

The vassals throng the hall. 
But where is she, the proudest born, 

The fairest Scotland knew? 
She wedded ere the blush of morn 

Her dear loved Bonnet Blue! 



SOLDIERS' HOME 

What, Pete Hawes? I'm glad to see you; 

Stand up closer, near the light! 
Just the match of when I faced you, 

Old Pete Hawes, at Shiloh fight. 
You come chargin' up with Longstreet, 

I with Wallace kep' the hill; 
Say, old Reb, my schoolboy crony, 

P'raps that wa'nt a scrumptious mill. 

'Member, Pete, you'd lost your shako? 

How you puffed as on you came! 
Just as many a time I've seen you 

In some rough an' tumble game. 
With your face as red's a turkey's, 

An' your hair not dressed to kill; 
You jumped at me with the bay 'net, — 

Didn't you thrust it with a will! 

But I've played at "prisoner's base," boy; 

There I learned a trick or two, 
And I dodged or that derned bay'net 

Sure as guns had run me through. 
Gosh! it sot my dander risin', 

An' I grabbed my gunstock tight; 
If I'd let the daylight through you 

It had served you blamed well right. 

Fur, you mind, you'd stumbled forward, 
An' before you'd got your feet 

You'd a' been the prettiest corpus 
That was ever made dog meat; 
248 



SOLDIERS' HOME 249 

Fur I'd draw'd my skewer this way, 

Up an' back to sock it well; 
All the chance you'd then for livin' 

Could crept in a walnut shell. 

But as quick as lightnin' on me 

Come the thought of childhood days, 
When we used to fight, play hookey, 

Ride down hill, tell yarns and laze; 
So I hadn't heart to do it, — 

Rammed the butt end in your breast, 
An' you tumbled down the earthwork; 

Went to bed already dressed. 

Three times up the hill like tigers 

Charge on charge you rebels came, 
An' we druv' you back as many; 

Our boys' blood was up and game. 
Thunder, how our Sniders rattled! 

You chaps tumbled by the score; 
That blow saved your life, my hearty, 

Guess you'd seen the other shore. 

When you rebs got tired of maulin', 

Left us masters of the field, 
There I found you, Pete, a-lyin' 

Like a Roman on his shield; 
With three dead men piled on top you, 

T'other one beneath your head; 
'Twas a cur'ous kind of cover, 

Fine old bolster fur you* bed. 

Then I fished you out, all dazed like, 

Blinkin' awkward with your eyes; 
Poured you down a horn of brandy, 

Druv' away the pesky flies; 



250 SOLDIERS' HOME 

Then I felt three ribs was broken, 
Didn't mean to hit so rough, 

But when men for life is strikin' 
They're dead sure to strike enough. 

An' you can't say, Pete, old feller, 

That I didn't treat you square, 
Though they might a' used you rough like 

In the prison over there; 
Twice, my boy, I sent terbacker 

By some chaps was goin' back; 
'Twasn't much, but I was thinkin'd 

Keep your wits from gettin' slack. 

An' I see you live and chipper, 

Like a rooster up at morn; 
I, you see, was not so lucky, 

Got laid up, was badly worn; 
And I see you notice, Peter, 

I've three legs in place of two, 
Them's my stumpers in the corner, — 

Ain't they hansum pegs, fur true? 

How'd I lose it? O at Vicksburg, — 

Knocked off by a Parrot ball; 
Then they sent me here, I've been here 

These three years come late in fall; 
But now sit ye down, old hearty, 

Smoke your pipe and drink your can; 
I was Blue an' you was Grey, lad, 

But we're both yet solid man. 

Blame them blasted politicians 
Holdin' up the bloody shirt; 

If they'd not that rag to cling to 
They'd be in some other dirt; 



SOLDIERS' HOME 251 

But for us as seen the service 

We'll remember Shiloh's day; 
Grab, old pard, your horn of plenty, — 

Here's, my boy, the Blue and Grey! 



GOOD SAINT VALENTINE 

KIND Cupid, god of tender wiles, 
Who rules the hearts of men, 
Great Sovereign lord of tears and smiles 

And of the lyrist's pen, 
Is my dear love still true to me 

As e'er he was lang-syne? 
What message from him o'er the sea 
Brings good Saint Valentine? 

He brought my lover first to me; — 

As from my dreams he came; 
Full-browed with thought supremacy, 

His voice a thrilling flame; 
And wit that like a rapier flew 

To clip the sparks from mine, — 
While blithe, a day-bright laugh he threw 

To good Saint Valentine. 

A gallant, handsome, fearless, proud, 

As e'er was hawk on wrist, 
With every manly grace endowed, 

True steel to plighted tryst. 
He pressed his parting on my lips, 

Then said, his hand in mine, 
"I'll write, my dear, when come the ships 

Of good Saint Valentine!" 

The ships are past the harbor bar, 

All anchored nigh the quay; 
Each sail gleams like the happy star 

Of Love's nativity, 
252 



GOOD SAINT VALENTINE 253 

But has my dear one sent his word 

Beneath his signet's sign? — 
Come tell me tidings, wandering bird, 

Of good Saint Valentine! 

Uncourteous bird! — no message kind 

By page or marinere! 
There's but the sobbing of the wind 

Along the lonely brere; 
O where's thy token, blue sea wave, 

To light this care of mine! 
Oh, sigh not, wind, as from his grave, 

For good Saint Valentine! 

This tree is ours where last we met, 

And carved here on the rind, 
Within the green moss-livery set, 

Our names stand intertwined; 
O tree, tell me what wind of love 

Brings thee his whispered sign: 
I'll carve the dear words here above 

For good Saint Valentine. 



She heard no step across the leaves — 

She saw no snow-white plume; 
She gazed where bound in glittering sheaves 

The sunbeams lanced the gloom, 
Then started with a sudden shriek: 

He clasped her, — "Mistress mine, 
He's come himself his word to speak 

For good Saint Valentine!" 



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 

THOU hast my secret, I have told 
All, all, my father, even his name; 
My love hath made my duty bold; 
I can for his sake bear thy blame; 
Here am I, all thy anger prove; 

'Twill root him deeper in my love. 

What though his be no princely race, 
Must pride then tear two souls apart? 

Lo, worth is stamped upon his face, 
Nobility is in his heart 

No knight of all thy halls so free 
To do proud deeds of chivalry. 

I loathed the high-born butterflies, 

That paid me court with fawning smiles; 

I hated all their varnished lies, 

Despised their mean, transparent wiles, 

He seemed to all that smirking band 
A prince who held in his bare hand 

More honor than their gilded scrolls, 

More worth than all their leagues of land; 

How trifling seemed their little souls 
By that high look and bearing grand; 

Might he not scorn their borrowed fame 
And accident of noble name? 
254 



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 255 

Thou frown'st — I know what thou wouldst say — 

I'd lower forsooth thy honored race; 
Yet our forefathers in their day 

Plucked fame from even as low a place; 
'Tis worth from which all honor springs; 

Without it, crowns disgrace their Kings! 

How came it that I loved him then? 

I had a heart could match his own; 
Had he been more like other men 

He might have loved — but he alone. 
Where have the schoolmen writ in books 

That eagles ever mated rooks? 

Threat me with no false, loathed tie — , 

My spirit ne'er would brook to be 
The slave of low desires, to die 

Were then my soul's last liberty; 
Think'st thou this breast a heart doth bear 

Less free- willed than my fathers' were? 

Rememb'rest when, a little maid, 

I pulled some wild-flowers in a wood, 

And of them did a chaplet braid 
And crowned me in a merry mood, 

You said, "Sweet, here's a wreath more rare," 
And placed these jewels on my hair. 

And how I cast the gems aside 

And chose my floral crown instead, 
And how you laughed in easy pride 

And said a shepherd I should wed ? 
I were content to wear even now 

That humbler garland on my brow, 



256 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER 

And with its emblems, at thy feet 

Lay state — lay all whereto I'm born; — 

Ay, would the lowliest fortunes meet 
Ere I to him would prove forsworn! 

That truly is dishonor's part — 
To lie against a loving heart. 

But yet I know that thou art kind, 
I know thou art my father still; 

That 'tis the one wish of thy mind 
Thy daughter's heart with joy to fill; 

Could'st thou take from her e'en in thought 
That, without which all else were nought? 

Dear father, is not true love fair? 

Unbend that frown upon thy brow! 
My father, kind beyond compare, 

Thy daughter's heart is 'gainst thee now! 
Dost hear? — 'tis the warm throb in mine 

Speaking to that proud beat in thine! 

Now thou dost smile! and now I know 
That thou art all my father still; 

Why do my tell-tale blushes glow? 
Father, he waiteth on thy will! 

This forward youth, forsooth, would be 
A sharer in thy bounty free! 

Look forth! What prince hath nobler air? 

Hyperion was not such as he! 
He sees — he bounds the castle stair! 

And now he kneeleth at thy knee! 
Must we dismiss him? Say you so — 

This forward youth ? My father, No/ 



THE OLD SABRE 

TURN my chair, old comrade, toward the window, 
Where the sunbeams fall 
On my old and rusty battered sabre, 

Hanging on the wall; 
For my failing eyes would look upon it 

Ere I breathe my last; 
How like burnished gold the flaming sunset 
On its blade is cast! 



For three generations has that sabre 

Waved amidst the fight; 
Many a blow for Freedom it has stricken 

And for England's right; 
For my father's father once did wear it 

Through the Flanders War, 
When the French our soldiers under Marlborough 

Followed long and far. 

It has oft in battle with my father 

To the hilt been dyed; 
Twice with him across the broad Atlantic 

Was its temper tried; 
Up the heights of Ti' it led the stormers ; 

Downed the Oriflamme, 
When with gallant Wolfe it faced the Frenchmen 

Under stout Montcalm. 

257 



J 



258 THE OLD SABRE 

Me, too, it has served in many a battle 

On the Indian sands, 
When from out Mysore black Tippoo Sahib 

Led his cut-throat bands; 
And on many a field of Spain I've worn it, 

From the days when Moore 
Marched us into Leon, fondly trusting 

To the Spaniard's lure. 

Yes! I won my stripes as color-sergeant 

On Vimiera's height, 
When I, wounded, reeled all sick and bloody 

From the desperate fight; 
How we chased the cowed and beaten Frenchmen 

Through the fields of Spain! 
Drove them out of Andalusian vineyard 

And Castilian plain! 

And my sword waved victor from the Tagus 

To the Pyrenees; 
Loud we cheered as forth our colors floated 

To the mountain breeze; 
How we smashed Soult's scarred and veteran legions, 

Laid his eagles low; 
My old comrade, Wellesley, king of heroes, 

Led us on the foe! 

But my sabre's crowning hour of triumph 

Was that day in June, 
When we Guardsmen gathered under Picton 

To the cannon's tune; 
When we formed across the miry corn-field, 

Mid the trampled rye, 
And we spied out Boney's hundred banners 

Flaunting to the sky. 



THE OLD SABRE 259 

And my old and rusty battered sabre 

As I gripped it fast, 
Seemed to thrill unto my heart's quick beating 

With its glories past; 
For the Iron Duke still looked upon us 

And we thought of home, 
And we vowed we'd be no slaves to Frenchmen 

And the dogs of Rome. 

See that nick upon the edge! 'twas cleft there 

By a cuirassier, 
As he sideways leaned from out his saddle, 

When in full career; 
And you see the point is turned and broken, — 

'Twas the thrust I sped 
Through the ribs of a frog-eater did it 

As I stretched him dead ! 

Give me here the grand old sabre, comrade ! 

For my failing hand 
Would at touch with new life nerve and quicken 

Of my trusty brand; 
How as light as reed it bent and quivered 

In my sinewy grasp! 
Hardly now my palsied, trembling fingers, 

Round the hilt I clasp! 

Fades the daylight, and the sunbeams waver, 

And their lustres fall; 
And the deepening shadows of the twilight 

Chase them from the wall; 
And my life is slowly ebbing, ebbing, 

And the muffled roll 
Of a drum is through the dimness beating, 

Summoning my soul. 



260 THE OLD SABRE 

'Tis the order of the Great Commander 

Signalling to rest; 
Mother land, I've loved you well, I'm dying 

On your dear-loved breast! 
Reach your hand, old comrade, I am going, 

With my long discharge, 
Where there'll be forever rest from fighting, 

All the ranks at large. 

Take the sabre — for my chilling fingers 

Feel the hilt no more; 
'Tis a memory of pain and struggle, 

May its reign be o'er; 
But it helped the righteous cause of nations 

As the good God willed; 
And I trust that he will grant us pardon 

For the blood it spilled. 

When you lay me in the grave, my comrade, 

Under yon gray oak tree, 
Let my dear and faithful old companion 

Buried be with me; 
'Tis the only thing that I have left me 

And we ne'er shall part; — 
Lay it, comrade, in the coffin with me, 

Hilt against my heart! 



LAMOND 

A LIKELIER lad than Lamond was 
God wot was never seen; 
No lither foot e'er dashed the dew 
From off the bracken green. 

No surer hand in all Argyle 

Drew bow or wielded brand; 
In sport or hunt, in dance or song, 

The first in all the land. 

'Twas when the leaves began to fall, 
With youths some eight or nine, 

It chanced that Lamond chased the deer 
One day thru far Glenfine. 

Both rough and toilsome grew the way; 

His friends lagged far behind; 
Yet Lamond on the wounded stag 

Pressed faster than the wind. 

When, lo, a huntsman's shrill halloo 

Broke on his startled ear; 
Yet dashed he forward on the bent 

Without one care or fear. 

When straight, the stag, a bow-shot length, 

Fell dead, before the lad, 
And lo, a hunting band drew nigh 

Who wore Macgregor's plaid. 
261 



262 LAMOND 

Out stepped Macgregor's only son, 

A comely boy was he, 
His foot he planted on the deer, 

Then loud and bold spake he. 

"Come you as friend or come as foe, 

'Tis little reck to me; 
But come you here to claim this deer, 

Well proved your claim must be." 

Right forward sprang the fearless youth 
And seized the branching tyne; 

"Stand back!" he cried, "I roused this deer 
This morn beyond Glenfine! 

"Against your numbers stands my right, 

With this I urge my claim," 
And from its sheath his good claymore 

Leaped forth like flash of flame. 

"Art then so bold?" Macgregor cried, 

"Stand back my clansmen all, 
Whoe'er shall now the worthier prove 

To him the deer shall fall!" 

Right short and desperate was the strife 

The fiery youngsters made; 
For soon his foeman's generous blood 

Flowed forth on Lamond's blade. 

With one exulting cry the youth 

Flung up his sword in air, 
When round him closed Macgregor's band 

Like bloodhounds round a bear. 



LAMOND 263 

But striking down the foremost man 

He cleft the ring in twain; 
As starts an arrow from the string 

He fled with might and main. 

Yet breathing curses dark and deep 

The clansmen throng his track; 
The foot of no Macgregor yet 

For deed of blood was slack. 

Thru brake and wood, o'er cliff and hill, 

For life did Lamond strain, 
And swift as swallow now he skims 

Across the heath-clad plain. 

When straight before his starting eyes 

Macgregor's fastness rose; 
Now sure the runner seeks his fate! 

Exultant yelled his foes. 

With one low cry and headlong bound 

He burst the foremost door, 
And, lo, what chance can save him now, 

He stands the chief before! 

"Chieftain, we met, 'twas mortal strife, 

Your son was slain by me; 
Take now my life, for I have left 

No strength to further flee." 

Black grew Macgregor's swarthy brow, 

Forth flashed his ready dirk, 
As with an ague, all his frame 

Did with his passion work. 



264 LAMOND 

Thrice fell the weapon at his side, 

And thrice it rose in air; 
Not fiercer on the hunter glares 

A wild-cat from its lair. 

Close drew the tramp of hurrying feet, 

"Enough," he sternly said, 
"Though vengeance lives, beneath my roof 

No harm shall touch your head." 

Then strode he quickly to the door, 
"What seek ye, clansmen, here?" 

As hounds that list the huntsman's call, 
They checked their fierce career. 

"Death to the murderer of your son! 

Make way, my chief, make way!" 
But with his long and sinewy arm 

He made their boldest stay. 

"Thou'rt mad, my children," cried the chief, 

"Away and search the woodl 
A hundred kine I give to him 

Who spills the murderer's blood!" 

Like famished wolves around the wold 
They sought the vanished prey; 

But Lamond 'neath the chieftain's roof 
Lay safe 'till close of day. 

Then when the moon her lantern hung 

Above the lonely height, 
Two silent forms moved swiftly forth 

Within the fold of night. 



LAMOND 265 

The chieftain strode before, the youth 

Trod light the fearsome shade; 
E'er as the wind-swept foliage stirred 

His fingers clutched his blade. 

Till with a joyful heart he viewed 

Once more the treeless land; 
Then as they gained the midmost heath 

The chieftain took his stand. 

His face showed ghastly pale, his voice 

Was hoarse with hate and grief, 
And his proud, stalwart frame was shook 

As is an aspen leaf. 

"Stout be your arm and true your sword" — 

(His brow grew dark and wild), 
"When in the open next I meet 

The slayer of my child!" 

He turned and pulled his bonnet down; 

His plaid he round him drew; 
Next instant and the beechwood shade 

Concealed his form from view. 

Years passed, Macgregor aged apace; 

He chased the deer no more; 
But yet in memory of a wrong 

He wore his broad claymore. 

Till like a flood in harvest-time 

The northern clans came down; 
They harried all the country-side, 

And burnt both hall and town. 






266 LAMOND 

The aged chief was forced to flee, 
And, wandering in the wild, 

All sudden in his path he met 
The slayer of his child. 

But Lamond dropped his ready blade, 

He broke in sobbing grief; 
"Long have I mourned my hasty deed, 

Forgive me, generous chief! 

"Come to my home, I do repent 
What my rash hand hath done. 

Be thou the father I have lost, 
And I will be thy son!" 

He clasped the old man's wasted hands, 
He kneeled upon the heath; 

But straight Macgregor backward stept 
And drew his sword from sheath. 

' He raised his arm — it faltering fell — 

Nor yet the chieftain spoke. 
His form was shook as thrills a tree 
Beneath the woodsman's stroke. 

His cheek grew pale, — a passion tide 

Across his features swept, — 
Then sternness melted from his face, 

He bowed his head and wept. 

He flung the claymore from his hand, 
"Brave youth," he broken said, 

"Heaven gives me back my son, and takes 
My foe; revenge is dead!" 



ON THE FRONTIER 

HELLO yerself! Well, stranger, 
What's news with you down East? 
Will ye have a bite ? A hump steak 

Isn't very much of a feast 
But ye're welcome. I see you've ridden 

A good many mile to-day — 
Jest take off yere hoss's bridle 
And let the critter stray. 

We don't get much news on the prairie. 

The 'lection is over, ye say? 
The Repubs thrown out? Well, dang it, 

That crowd have had their day. 
We've been scouts here on the frontier 

And we've drawed Uncle Samuel's cash 
Nigh thirty year and mebby 

Seen some notions go to smash. 

All through the war we served, sir; 

Fit for the Union then 
In Custer's Brigade, — for a fighter 

He was the boss o' men! 
I never took stock in niggers, 

But 'twas fair to give 'em a show; 
Then we drifted out here on the prairie 

Twenty-five year ago. 

267 



268 ON THE FRONTIER 

There was Injuns all about us 

And not a white in the land; 
All that country dotted with houses 

Was clean as the palm o' yer hand; 
And me and Hank, my chum here, 

Many a night we've passed 
Watch and watch 'til mornin', 

Thankful our scalps held fast. 

We was down on the Platte just yonder 

Huntin' some buffalo, 
When we struck a pioneer's wagon, 

Wife and baby in tow; 
They was young and towny people, 

And we wondered to see 'em there 
Away on the lonesome prairie, 

Out of Uncle Samuel's care. 

Well, we chinned with the chap and his woman 

And we found 'em smooth as silk; 
They hadn't even a tan on, 

As white, sir, as new milk; 
And Hank and me it stumped us 

How such critters got out here ; 
Why folks like them should rough it 

It 'peared outrageous queer. 

But that young chap 'dmired his wifey 

The best I ever seen; 
For ye see she was slim and pooty 

And ladylike as a queen; 
And delicate and sweet-natured 

As a blade o' young spring corn, 
With an eye as clear and pleasant 

As a mountain pool at morn. 



ON THE FRONTIER 269 

And the dear little baby girl, sir, — 

Jest about two year old — 
Was the cunnin'est, cutest creter, 

With its hair all curly gold. 
'Twas a toss up which or t'other 

Of that little family nest, 
The chap or wife or baby, 

Loved either the others best. 

They pitched their claim just yonder 

By the river's wooded bank, 
And he started to build his shanty 

With the grit of a true-born Yank; 
And Hank and me took a fancy 

To the chap and give him a hand 
And helped him raise his log-house 

And root up his patch o' land. 

But no sooner they got to livin' 

In the shebang than he fell sick; 
Worked too hard for a green hand 

And the fever ketched him quick; 
But we hung around the country < 

And helped the poor little wife; 
And by and by with care, sir, 

She nursed him back to life. 

And, be jing, if they'd had millions 

They'd a' given it all to us; 
You'd a' thought we was Kings in exile 

They made on us such a fuss; 
And when we'd cross the country 

On our way back from the Fort 
We'd stay at the Yankee's log-house 

With his mail and the last report. 



270 ON THE FRONTIER 

'Twas just a year from their comin', 

Hank and me was out for news 
On the trail o' some restless Injuns, 

Foxes, Cheyennes, and Sioux, 
When down on us come a-ridin' 

Like mad, barehead, and wild, 
That Yank chap hollerin' to us, 

"My wife — my wife and child! 

"Good God!" he yelled, "the Injuns! 

There — there — that way's the track!" 
No time for axin' questions, 

We turned our mustangs back, 
And the style we streaked that prairie 

I never went afore, 
Since the day when we chased Morgan 

In Missouri in the War. 

We struck the trail o' their ponies — 

Six sets o' hoofs they were, — 
And straight to west they pinted 

Like a line drawn through the air; 
We chased 'em down to dark, sir, 

And all the followin' day, 
Till we saw their camp-smoke curlin' 

Far through the evenin' grey. 

We hitched our nags to some bushes 

And waited for day to pass ; 
Then armed with our guns we started 

To crawl through the prairie grass; 
Till eatin' there by the fire 

Was six Injuns big and tall, 
And the Yank's wife was sittin' near 'em 

With her baby wrapped in a shawl. 



ON THE FRONTIER 271 

Jiggers! it raised my dander 

To see them Injuns feed, 
And nary a bite to the woman 

Though she looked in the worst o' need; 
But the young Yank's face was a pictur, 

And his two eyes flashed like flame, 
And I knowed we would count to the letter 

He would kill or die there game. 

We each one singled an Injun 

And let go like one man; 
We dropped three dead, and the others 

They give one yelp and ran; 
And next moment, tremblin', faintin', 

But safe from the Injuns' harms, 
The wife with her baby tumbled 

Kerflop in the young chap's arms. 

And what a huggin' and kissin' 

Went on for a little while! 
You'd a' hurd them smacks he give her 

Well on to half-a-mile. 
They laughed and cried like time, sir, 

And Hank he blowed his nose, 
And I felt all kind o' crawly 

Way down to the ends o' me toes. 

Well, they'd had 'bout 'nough o' the frontier, 

Ye can bet yer dimes on that! 
They moved East, but we've hurd from 'em often 

Out here on the river Platte ; 
And that chap was as slick a feller 

As I'll ever see or hear, 
For many's the pound o' pigtail 1 

He sent us these twenty year. 






272 ON THE FRONTIER 

And if ever ye come acrost him — 

Ye may, perhaps, ye see, — 
Jest mention' we're live and chipper, 

My old chum here and me. 
Don't I know ye? Never sized ye 

Afore — did you ever, Hank? 
Why, bless my stars and garters — 

If it isn't the little Yank! 



DEVON AND DRAKE 

HO, Pelicans, tip the flagon — * 
Here's to Devon's old renown! 
May we have such ale to brag on 

When land luck has run us down. 
Now here, and to-morrow the ocean, 

To follow the Spaniards' wake 
And to breathe a life of motion 
In the Spanish Main with Drake! 

Ay, lads, all men are civil 

To the Kings of the open sea, 
For we fear nor saint nor devil 

And we spend our ducats free. 
All cheer the bold freebooter, 

When they see his topsails shake, 
For silver is cheap as pewter 

In the Spanish Main with Drake. 

Last cruise by tempests pounded 

We scudded the nor'east breeze, 
With joyous hearts we rounded 

Cape Horn to the southern seas; 
We upset Sancho's scheming, 

How he would for harbor make 
When he saw the Red-Cross streaming 

In the Spanish Main with Drake! 

* The name of Drake's vessel was the "Pelican." 

273 



274 DEVON AND DRAKE 

We made short work of the slaver, 

He gave us an offing wide; 
We asked of man no favor, 

For Heaven was on our side; 
Of all sea-rovers the vanward, 

We threw for a splendid stake 
When we sailed the track of the Spaniard 

In the Spanish Main with Drake. 

We scuttled their barques and traders, 

And their galleons plundered too; 
Like heartiest sea-crusaders 

On the monsoon's wings we flew; 
From Lima to Portobello 

We kept the Dons awake; 
A hero was every fellow 

In the Spanish Main with Drake! 

We ravaged their rich plantations 

And ransacked their convents' gold; 
To their Popish lamentations 

We were deaf, like Britons bold; 
But our hearts were warm and human 

For our wives' and sweethearts' sake, 
And we harmed no child or woman 

In the Spanish Main with Drake. 

The spawn of the Inquisition, 

Who had wrought through two worlds harm, 
We gave a high commission — 

'Twas the end of our long yard-arm! 
We flung their bones to the raven 

And the shark, for acquaintance sake, 
And burned their blood-stained haven 

In the Spanish Main with Drake. 



DEVON AND DRAKE 275 

We brought an Infanta's dower 

A present to good Queen Bess; 
Our captain won fame and power 

And was knighted for our success; 
We've feasted at home in Devon 

On the best they brew and bake — 
But here's to a breezy heaven 

In the Spanish Main with Drake! 

Let the Jesuit snarl in rancor — 

Let him loose his hounds of Spain; 
We will lift with Drake the anchor — 

We will spread our sails again! 
Let them look to their Lisbon and Cadiz 

As we'll down their sea-coasts rake, 
St. George's God to aid us 

In the Spanish Main with Drake! 

The Pope may send forth letters 

And Philip his war ships too, 
But our limbs for Castile fetters 

Are too stout and our hearts too true! 
Let them flourish and make bravada 

And threaten our pride to break, 
But we'll stand to their huge Armada 

When Devon's afloat with Drake. 



MARY JANE 

OF all the maids in Brooklyn City 
There's none to match my Mary Jane ; 
She is so pretty, sweet, and witty 

She fills my heart with loving pain; 
Whene'er I see her in the arey 

A-polishing a window-pane, 
She looks just like a story fairy, 
My dainty, white-armed Mary Jane. 

She's chamber-maid at number seven, 

Her master is an overseer, 
And I sell meat at number 'leven 

The butcher-shop of Rufus Grier, 
I cuts the steaks for man and missus 

And many a flattering smile I gain; 
I wish them smiles were turned to kisses 

And came to me with Mary Jane. 

When she goes out to take her airing 

On some fine Thursday afternoon, 
Her pretty fixings all a-wearing, 

She's fairer than the silver moon; 
There is no lady in the street here 

That sweeps along in satin train, 
Who's rigged more stylish and completer 

Than sweet and lovely Mary Jane. 
276 



MARY JANE 277 

I took her to a ball last winter, 

'Twas given by the B. P. U's;* 
She broke the fellers' hearts to splinter 

A-tippin' on them pinks o' shoes; 
Them shoes — they'd done for Cinderella! 

Her dress was only blue delaine; 
But blest if there was half so swell a 

Miss there as my Mary Jane. 

The dearest wish I've for the future, 

When I can stock me up in beef, 
'S t' turn an independent butcher 

And Mary Jane make Mrs. Keefe; 
Though storms may come and cloudy weather, 

We'll nothing of the storms complain; 
We too will make sunshine together, 

Me and my sweetheart, Mary Jane. 
* Butchers' Protective Union. 



BLIND MILTON 

{Loquitur) 

I HAVE lived late and come on evil days; 
Some lewd-tongued revellers even now crost my door 
With brawl and uproar and the sottish crew 
Jeered as they passed my blindness ; were it not 
For memory of what this land has been, 
What it has borne thru suffering for the truth, 
The uncontaminate, burning hearts that mourn, 
Indignant, pitying her uncrowned state, 
Hope with me had departed and my darkness 
Were night indeed; but that pure Spirit Eterne, 
Whose Voice is heard in silence, and whose Word 
Is full of the promises of Him whose arm 
Upholds the heavens, sustains me. 

I have seen 
Frothing the measure of this yeasty time 
Rash, licensed spirits, stuffed with vanity, 
Dregs of spume faction and adulterous birth, 
Pestilent, rapacious, unabashed, 
With venal function and blood-guilty lust 
Fouling high place; and masquered, mumbling Faith 
With greedy palms outstretched, impious in prayer, 
With fulsome lips agape — or with haught brow 
Trampling the elect of God beneath her feet, 
Bawd to the subtle harlot, crowned and throned 
Upon the Seven Hills; her pander, State, 
Holding his swinish revel, satyr-eyed, 

278 



BLIND MILTON 279 

Insensate, swol'n with pride; the honored seats 

Of God-enfranchised men trafficked and sold 

To buy the smiles of wantons, and the throne 

Of the great Edwards, Henries, made the pawn 

Of mockers, rakes and masquers, and debased 

To foreign thralldom, while a courtesan 

Plays Juno to the giggot rule of him, 

The spawn of that late tyrant who betrayed 

Our commonwealth, and would have broken down 

Our liberties, had not the Highest raised 

Men like to Joshua and Gideon who 

Fired the indignant hearts of humble men 

To rise and overthrow him, and so sealed 

The charter of our freedom with his blood. 



How has our greatness fallen! the foul block 
Dripping with blood of martyrs ; the honored bones 
Of those whose names still thunder round the earth, 
Hurled from their graves, grappled in gibbet irons, 
Bared to the sneering and unholy gaze 
Of sycophants and mummers, while the Dutch, 
Who shrank to cover when our trumpets blew, 
Insult us in our shores, and the French court 
Lampoons our infamy, and the Triple Crown 
Recovers, threatening all the Saints of God, 
While rufflers, duelists and gamesters crowd 
The honored of our land into their graves. 



But this is in God's hand ; as David purged 

His spirit, so this land will cast aside 

The grave-clothes of her sin, and rise again 






280 BLIND MILTON 

A mightier nation than this world has seen, 
A beacon to the ages; 

I foresee, 
In that fair land beyond the western surge 
New Hampdens, Cromwells, leading forth a race 
English in speech to empire, bearing the rampt 
Lion of English valor at the fore, 
And spreading witness of His Holy name 
Who bends the heavens, portents comets and shakes 
The stars out of their spheres ; filling the void 
Of virgin forests, leveling the hills, 
Bridging the mightiest rivers, making bloom 
The desert, city studded, till a new 
England of mightier presence than the old 
Shall rise across the ocean, queen-like, fair 
As Venus Amphitrite, with throned bows 
Majestic, wreathed with vine-leaves and full corn, 
Her rippling tresses clustered; in her hand 
Sheep-hook for sceptre, her star-shimmered robe, 
With fragrant cestus girdled ; in her eyes 
The morning of the young Democracy, 
Whose leaven working thru the world unseen 
Shall permeate the castes, and overthrow 
Privilege and the pomp and power of kings; 
Voicing its claim within Tradition's halls, 
Echoing with din of war and prelate strife 
And footfalls of receding centuries. 

Oh, England, oh, my mother, in that time 

Bear thyself well! for 'gainst thy strength shall crowd 

Envy, distrust, and malice; with the seed 

Of Freedom grow the tares of sensual sloth 

And self-sufficiency; the prosperous years 

Enervate, and the vigor of thy arm 



BLIND MILTON 281 

Which steered the world may slacken ; not for long, 
If I may read aright the pristine worth 
Of spirit which endures, and greatly tried 
Shines forth the brighter for the stormy wrack, 
Leaving thee still serene, the pride of earth, 
The patron heir of time; — 

Prithee lead in; 
The night grows chill, and wide invisible wings 
Of contemplation tent above my thought 
Calmed from the outer world. My heart is stirred 
Strangely, and on my lifted spirit grows 
The theme of that great argument I told 
Thee yester-night of. I give thanks to him 
Who while He took the sense of sight hath left 
The inner vision, spared the varied lore 
I drew in youth from many a storied fount 
Of ancient inspiration; calmed my soul 
That I unmoved within this evil time 
May trust His promise for that ampler day. 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 

[The defence of the Long Saut, as told in the pages of Park- 
man, is one of the most spirited episodes in the history of New 
France. For thirteen days the Sieur Dollard of Doulac, with six- 
teen devoted companions of the garrison of Montreal and five 
Algonquin braves, defended the renowned Pass against the whole 
armed power of the Iroquois Nation, and though all were even- 
tually slain, their defence so disheartened the savages that they 
gave up all hope of driving the French from Canada.] 

THE Iroquois with wasting torch and cruel butchering 
hand, 
East, West and North resistless sweep across New France's 

land; 
Along Ontario's northern shore they range with none to 

check, 
And muster bands around Champlain to threat the young 
Quebec. 

Each hour some hut or hamlet flames — the foe strike every- 
where ; 

The lumberer in the woods is slain while swings his axe in 
air. 

From every savage girdle hangs some pledge of ghastly 
strife, 

Torn reeking from the quivering flesh beneath the scalping 
knife. 

Now, who would live out length of days nor court a tor- 
tured death, 
Must hasten to the palisades by stealth with bated breath; 

282 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 283 

The venturous couriers du bois all still and watchful go; 
The winter wild cats are less fierce than this blood-famished 
foe. 

The Hurons from their villages like deer are hunted forth, 
And hide within the trackless wilds that fringe the frozen 

North ; 
The Melicites to Tadousac the awesome tidings tell, 
Where every shrieking blast forebodes the Mohawk's mur- 
der yell. 

But to the fort at Montreal have crossed the champing sea, 
From Mother France a chosen band of youthful chivalry; 
And he, the proud young commandant with high-born, peer- 
less port, 
Is Dollard, Sieur of old Doulac, the star of Louis' Court. 

'Tis Dollard speaks to Maisonneuve, the governor of New 
France, 

While flashes round the council hall his proud and burning 
glance, 

"Had I one score of willing hearts to hold the narrow Saut, 

These prowling wolves of Iroquois would soon their mas- 
ters know. 

"Now, who will dare to stake his life upon a desperate 

chance ? 
Who'll earn with me a deathless name — who'll win renown 

for France? 
Or will ye slink and cower still within your fortress wall, 
While on your desolated fields in flames your roof-trees fall ? 

"What, would ye send the tidings home that by a savage foe 
The royal Lilies are besmirched and torn and trampled low ; 



284 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 

The stock of Bayard and Navarre, of Conde and Dunois, 
Quail like a pack of well-whipped hounds before these Iro- 



quois 



"Speak, fellow-soldiers, comrades, friends — who now will 
go with me 

To drive the painted devils hence, come death or victory? 

In name of King and Christ's dear faith, let whoso will ad- 
vance, 

And draw his blade to strike for fame, for Dollard, and for 
France." 

An instant's pause — then sixteen youths spring forth with 

martial glee; 
Out flash their swords, at once they cry, "To death we'll 

follow thee!" , 

They snatch the gun and corselet down, they seize the pike 

and lance, 
Then throng the shore their muster cheer, "For Dollard 

and for France!" 

Forth leap the light canoes — they breast St. Lawrence swift 

and wide, 
To where the stately Ottawa rolls down her wine dark tide ; 
Yet still they stem the rushing stream, their paddles sweep 

the flow, 
Until they win the rugged rocks that hem the famed Long 

Saut. 

They land within the pass's jaws — their lonely camp is made 

Beside the bastion's rough-hewn wall, a loop-holed palisade; 

There, lined along the swarthy cliffs that bind the frothing 
sea, 

This band of New World Spartans hold their new Ther- 
mopylae. 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 285 

"Ho, yon canoes hold surely friends! 'Tis they our red 

allies!" 
Right joyous ring the welcome shouts that round the camp 

fires rise. 
"Annahotaha, fighting chief, with forty Huron braves — 
Now come, you cursed Iroquois — come now and find your 

graves ! 

"Ay, here stands France!" As hunters watch the mountain 

streams for game, 
They scan the rock-strewn, foaming pass, athirst for war 

and fame; 
Yet, true Crusaders, night and morn to Christ they bend the 

knee 
Beneath the oriflamme of God, the peerless Fleur-de-Lis. 

"Arm! arm! — they come! now strike for France! the foe 

are fair in view; 
The Iroquois, a thousand strong, shooting the rapids 

through !" 
Hurrah! the muskets volley death! a thousand yells reply; 
A leap — a splash — three first canoes upturned go drifting by ! 

"Vive, vive La France!" the paddles swerve — the redskins 

leap to land; 
Their scalp-locks tossing in the wind, their tomahawks in 

hand; 
Like wolves around a lone battue to shore the Oneidas 

crowd ; 
They come, the bloodhounds of the Lakes, the Mohawks 

fierce and proud. 

In plumed and painted panoply the glade the warriors 
throng ; 

Each scalping-knife hangs glittering keen within its deer- 
skin thong; 



286 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 

Beside each quiver sheathed with quills a hickory bow is 

borne, 
And round each waist the wampum belt with leathern fringe 

is worn. 

They rush — in vain! the dauntless band repel the fierce at- 
tack, 

And many an eagle plume goes down in dust and bloody 
wrack ; 

While storms from out the palisade to greet each fresh 
advance 

The Frenchman's stern defiant cheer, "For Dollard and 
for France!" 

Five days of stealthy, bold assault the stubborn French have 
stood, 

'Til all the trampled sward is now besmirched with savage 
blood ; 

No sleep by night, no peace by day, the worn-out band 
have won, 

For hourly rings the piercing whoop and cracks the an- 
swering gun. 

Five days! the Hurons, man by man, desert the leaguered 
walls ; 

Their haughty chief alone remains, for naught his soul 
appals ; 

With only four Algonquin braves, who to him constant 
stand, 

He fights beside the roaring Saut for France and Father- 
land! 

But yet, high o'er the closing din — the yell and crackling 
round, 

Bursts forth the war-cry of the French with hoarse, de- 
fiant sound; 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 287 

And still the Lilies flaunt the sky — still, as the foe advance 
The muskets rattle to the cheer, "For Dollard and for 
France!" 

Eight long days more! and yet around the fire-scathed pali- 
sade, 

The baffled, vengeful redmen throng the encircling forest- 
shade ; 

Eight hundred more of Iroquois adown the Richelieu 
sweep ; 

Now, gallants, look your last on earth — now must your loved 



ones weep 



Pile high the blazing birch canoes against the timbers 

brown — 
Make one more rush, you Iroquois, for half your foes are 

down! 
While sore with wounds and spent with toil, and dazed for 

want of sleep, 
How worn the few survivors now who still the barriers 

keep! 

Oh, Blessed Mary! but how weak has grown their stalwart 

cheer, 
As round that slope of blazing logs the boldest foes draw 

near ; 
But far above the strife of death the banner streams on 

high, 
And while it waves, you Iroquois, some Frenchman lives 

to die! 

Ay, by the Rood! as 'tween the logs the Mohawks rend 

their way, 
There stand that stubborn handful yet, like hunted stags, 

at bay; 



288 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 

"One cheer, my lads — La Nouvelle France! one cheer for 

Ville Marie! 
Then die like Frenchmen to the last, for die you must 

with me!" 

'Tis Dollard's voice — he dashes forth — he hurls a hand- 
grenade ; 

Too weak — too weak the cast — it bursts within the pali- 
sade! 

Ah, God! it scatters ruin and death! midst blinding flash 
and roar, 

Fast through the charred and gaping wall the furious red- 
skins pour. 

Stand stoutly still, you desperate few, God's rest is large 

for all; 
Now close with pistol, pike and sword, and round your 

Lilies fall! 
Spent, wounded, hopeless, overborne, front still the swarthy 

ring 
Where thirsty knives and tomahawks a thousand foemen 

swing ! 



Ay, staunchly round your banner close! — all sternly back 

to back, 
They meet with sword the tomahawk, the knife with pistol 

crack ; 
Still o'er the black and blinding smoke the pale blue Lilies 

dance, 
While fainter, hoarser grows the cheer, "For Dollard and 

for France!" 

And still the tufted braves go down, as falls the plumed 

maize 
Beneath the sturdy peasant's scythe across the furrowed 

ways ; 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 289 

'Til maddened at their frightful loss, the whooping, crowd- 
ing foe 

One close and deadly volley pour and lay the Frenchmen 
low. 

No — one stands yet — the sword-hilt dropped from out his 

nerveless hand; 
'Tis Dollard, of the snow-white plume, bold brow and 

lightning brand; 
He leans against the banner-staff, he lifts a last fond 

glance — 
Then falls with one death-throttled shout, "For Dollard 

and for France!" 

And o'er that smoking holocaust the peace of God comes 
down ; 

But why is raised no victor shout? — why spreads that sullen 
frown? 

Lo! heaped within yon blackened pyre, and strewed the san- 
guine plain, 

The whole Six Nations view dismayed their best and bravest 
slain ! 

This night, ye nuns of Montreal, resume your ways of peace, 

And you, ye watchers at Quebec, take now from fear re- 
lease ; 

For ne'er was ampler, prouder deed, since Clovis lifted 
lance, 

Than that which hath been wrought to-day by these few 
sons of France! 

And pause in time, you Iroquois, and count your hundreds 

slain, 
Ere you in closing strife would cross the Frenchmen's path 

again ; 



290 DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT 

How many, think ye, of your braves, will hunt the fields of 
blue, 

If every soldier of New France dies like these twenty- 
two? 



GORING'S RIDE 

ONE bumper, our sweethearts! then up and away! 
For there's hot work to do ere the close of the day; 
The train-bands of Essex are out in full force, 
And Cromwell's black troopers are mustered to horse. 
All round, — the King's health! for morn's breaking light, 
Now up, boot and saddle! away for the fight! 

What's here? A despatch! the North's up in arms! 
They swarm out like bees at the sound of alarms! 
Rupert's over the Humber like hawk on the wing, 
And Lunsford and Astley have joined with the King; 
Each turnpike from Scotland to stout Oxford town 
Is clatt'ring to horse-hoofs fast galloping down! 

Unfurl the old flag ! It has flown for the Right 
At Edge Hill, and many a tough, bloody fight; 
Who'd exchange its old tears and its dingy blood-stains 
For the gayest new silk the King's army retains! 
And though tarnished its lustre still proudly it waves 
As we dash sword in hand at the psalm-singing knaves! 

Open line, you in front! thrust a torch in yon pane! 
Give the churl a house-warming in high Spanish vein! 
Let the jade go, you sirs! Close up the rear ranks! 
You Roger and William — out on the flanks! 
Noll's pets are abroad — it were best to take care 
Or we'll stumble full tilt on their pikes unaware. 

Eustace, ride on ahead! we are nearing the plain; 
Keep a sharp look around! gag that ribald refrain! 

291 



292 GORING'S RIDE 

Look to primings, my men ! pass the word through the troop ! 
And see that each carbine hangs right of the croup 
The churls if we're careless may play us a trick, 
And they'll follow Noll's nose as the fiends follow Nick. 

Boy, whom see you there? by St. Denis of France 

The sight of a Roundhead's like prick of a lance ! 

What make you their colors? you rogue, look again! 

Pray God it be Ludlow's or Ireton's men! 

Left wheel! Line advance! Steady! Give your nags 

breath, — 
These foxes don't run that we hunt to the death. 

Now fellow, your trumpet! a good rousing blast! 
Pikes to front ! Ready ? Draw ! We have them at last ! 
Three cheers — for the Church ! for the King ! for the Cause ! 
Now down with all traitors, and up with the laws ! 
No quarter, my lads ! Cleave the Knaves to the gorge ! 
Charge, Cavaliers, charge! Now for God and St. George! 



LADY MAUD 

WAKE, Lady Maud! the stars grow dim, the morn in 
heaven is high, 
And I beneath thy lattice wait, sweetheart, to bid good-bye; 
My carbine's slung my baldric fro', at side my sword is 

pressed, 
Thy scarf doth deck my saddle bow, thy glove swings on my 

crest. 
Wake, maiden, wake! the day-god's shafts o'er-slant the 

upland sod, 
While I beneath thy lattice wait, my dream-bound Lady 

Maud. 

Wake, mistress mine! the time grows short, I must with 

speed away, 
For Rupert's reckless cavaliers will brook no long delay; 
The clarion call rings shrilly out, the silken flag floats free, 
I hear the tramp and muster shout, the brandished swords 

I see; 
My champing charger paws the ground, he scents the war 

abroad, 
Yet I beneath thy lattice wait, my fair-haired Lady Maud. 

Wake, lady, wake! this well may be thy gallant's last fare- 
well, 

For o'er the stiff-necked Commons' arms doth Victory clang 
her bell; 

From point to hilt my burnished blade deep red shall soon 
be dyed, 

293 



294 LADY MAUD 

For Rupert oath this day has made to humble Cromwell's 

pride. 
He vows the crop-eared, canting rout shall kiss this day the 

rod; 
Rise, rise! and look thy lattice forth, my bright- faced Lady 

Maud! 

Up, up! my fair one, — 'tis no time to dream of song and 

dance, 
Thy lover now must stride a horse, and handle sword and 

lance ; 
Nor now in sport thy sandal fan thy doting gallant strikes, 
He seeks the sword-play in the van, he braves the rush of 

pikes ; 
Ope, dear one ! ope those eyes of blue that all the world doth 

laud, 
And shine two victories down the morn, my peerless Lady 

Maud! 

Our standard floats on Naseby heath wide o'er the king's 
array, 

And I and every loyal blade must meet him there this day, 

And by Saint George! will they and I now ride the victor's 
course, 

Or, piled a rampart round him lie, o'erthrown by Crom- 
well's horse. 

One kiss — the last! and then farewell, and put thy trust in 
God, 

If ne'er on earth, we'll meet in Heaven, sweetheart, my 
Lady Maud! 



SONNETS 



FOREWORD 

Sonnet, Child of Petrarch and the Lyric Muse, thou wert born 
in the days of Chivalry and Romance, and all thy earlier youth 
was touched by love. Angelo, the Immortal, found for thee a 
deeper note, and the magnificent Lorenzo gave thee added grace. 
Next, Surrey and Wyatt, twins of English rhyme, rescued thee 
from the neglect of Fame, and nourished thee on English ground. 
"The gentle Spenser loved thee," and the high-born Sidney was 
thy servitor. 

But thy crowning glory was to be the guest of Shakespeare, the 
Prince of Song. He took from thee thy Italian mantle and decked 
thee in his own royal robes. No man shall henceforth do thee 
ampler honor. Under the hand of the mighty Milton thou ob- 
tained an organ tone — thy note of Reverence and Prayer. But 
the degenerate children of English Song abjured thee or gave but 
grudging habitation, until Wordsworth, Priest of Nature, ushered 
thee into his calm and stately cloisters. There thy plastic soul 
took on fresh harmonies and delights; new aspirations, fair hopes, 
sweet consolations and confidings. In thy turn thou becamest a 
teacher of men; and henceforth thou must remain the favored heir 
of the English Muse. 

It behooves not to tell of all the illustrious masters who have 
taken thee to their hearts. The Old World still loves thy ordered 
walk, and the New has opened wide its doors and enriched thee. 
To each hast thou spoken in a different key, for thy nature is 
variant as the flowers of mountain and field, of garden and forest. 
Thee, dwelling in the strict bonds of rhyme, I love best of all the 
Children of Song, for, if thou demandest much, thy favors are 
bountiful to them who worthily seek thee. 

But for them not of the true Brotherhood, wilt thou dig a pit- 
fall and cover the pretender and the careless wooer with shame. 
Therefore, O Sonnet, may my feet tread reverently in thy service, 
and in the name of these Masters be all this my cherishing of 
thee — so shalt thou obtain the larger honor and I perchance a 
favor more sweet. For my offering I bespeak the good-will of all 
true votaries of the Muse, and of all others who worship and love 
her but have been hoi den from bringing gifts to her shrine. In 
their hands I leave thee, beloved Sonnet, my companion and the 
solace of my heart! 

C. L. B. 



OUT OF THE DARKNESS 



I HAVE seen Freedom nailed upon the cross ; 
I have seen Truth outraged, and in that lie 
A nation damned, another nation die; 
A world at strife, stricken with bitter loss. 
Faith's counters in a game of pitch and toss, 
And ruthless Rapine with her hue and cry 
Urging the dogs of war, whose victims lie 
Strewing the scarp and heaping high the fosse. 

And with a deep despair for this fair world 
I gazed upon the blood-reek and the smoke, 
Till from my lips a quivering protest broke 

At all that waste of fair things, broken and hurled 
Into the jaws of Moloch, and the tears 
Not to be stanched or wiped away in years. 



II 



Yet midst that ruin and carnage I have seen 
Honor, a falcon, rise and breast the gale; 
And Fortitude expand her daring sail; 

And Love, the evangel, gliding in between 

The serried ranks; and Charity, in sheen 
Of service white, bidding the wounded hail, 
Clutching the hands of women, driven and pale, 

And children, fearful-eyed, unmirthed and lean. 

297 



298 SONNETS 

And out of all this hell, — this furnace flame 
Of warring nations, — I have marked thee rise, 
My Mother England, girt in shining mail, 
Thy Spenser's armed queen, and in the name 
Of thy great past look in the demon eyes 

Of Hate and make the dreadful Gorgon quail. 



Ill 



'Twas his design, — queen Mother of five free 

And stalwart nations; from whose loins have sprung 
Sons of proud pith, by mightiest minstrels sung; 

Thee to whom Earth brings tribute, and the Sea 

Fences with thy Viking liberty, — 

It was his hope, the overweening Teuton, stung 
With envy — plunderer since his horde was young — 

To rape the Hesperian apples from thy tree. 

Thou island Britomart, thy courage swells, 

Thy prowess strengthens as the test draws near. 

Upon thy breast the cross of service dwells; 
What foe can make my Mother England fear? 

Not he, the Outlaw, with his leash of hells; 
With murder in his heart and on his spear. 



SONNETS 299 

BRITAIN AND HER COLONIES 

Throned on the sunset marge of the old world, 

She sits in state, by all the new surveyed; 

The broad Atlantic at her feet is laid, 
O'er which she hath so oft her thunders hurled. 
O'er continents of virgin land unfurled, 

Far floats the Red Cross of her new crusade, 

The genius of her language, law and trade, 
Supreme where'er an ocean wave is curled! 
She reigns not conqueror only! o'er the main 

Speed forth her milder servitors of renown, 
Law, Justice, Freedom, and Commercial Faith; — 

Unlike the misruled, aliened wards of Spain, 
Her proud young statelings, all untouched by scathe, 

Are bound through love to her redoubted crown! 



ENGLAND AND THE ARMADA 

A crescent moon in mists of steel-gray hue 

Presaging dire disaster, o'er the main 

Rode the impending puissance of Spain, 
The Invincible Armada! Rumor flew 
With thousand tongues before it; awestruck drew 

Their breaths the bodeful nations; "England, vain," 

They cried, "to face proud Parma's hand of bane; 
Behold Sidonia's squadrons on the blue!" 

Rash doubters! throned upon her island steep 
She raised her dreadful trident; round her swarmed 

Her sea-dogs — marked their quarry; o'er the deep 
Her warlike trumpet pealed, her shout upstormed — 

"A Drake! a Raleigh!" where the blue waves sweep 
Round all her shores her dauntless spirit warmed! 



300 SONNETS 

BELGIUM 

The mandate of a haughty empire rang, 

"Be thou my roadway!" To the o'erweening foe 

Belgium from all her ramparts thundered, "No!" 
And soon across her fields the bullets sang. 
On your devotion, Liege, the issues hang 
Of Europe's fate! before your walls are low 
Forth to the front the Gallic legions flow, 
And England rouses to your cannon's clang. 

Small among nations, — stout and high of heart; 

Nor last upon the honored scroll of fame. 
Even Caesar feared your prowess; Charles the Bold 
Respected you alone; the Spaniards' art 

And arms were shriveled on your battle flame, 
And still your ancient war-shield you uphold. 

JAPAN 

The war clouds lower, are riven — and high in air 
Burns the far portent of the Rising Sun; 
Late promise of an empire long begun, 

Japan, whom Fate hath pledged, Japan the Fair! 

The lotus wreath still clinging to her hair, 
Yet in her hand the sword and smoking gun, 
While from her feet the western wolves have run, 

And from his prey crawls off the crippled Bear. 

The Orient queen, flower-robed and crowned with arts — 
Nippon, the nurse of chivalry and dreams, 

Yet dread in battle. From his roadstead starts 
Togo the Watcher, while his banner streams 

Defiance. When those thunders die away 

Where are his foes? Answer, ye waves at play! 



SONNETS 301 

MONTENEGRO 

The thunders of five stormy centuries broke 
Full on thy mountain! Frank and Ottomite 
Brested in vain that black, redoubted height; 

Vainly they strove to bend thee to their yoke. 

Down those ravines, steaming with musket smoke, 
Thy cliff-reared heroes drove their hosts in flight, 
While that stern Amurath, the Christian's blight, 

Fled headlong from their swift avenging stroke. 

Still, Tsernagora, stand and front the world 

As when, wide-rolled, the Moslem breakers swept 
Around thy rock of refuge ; — Freedom there 
Still keeps her ancient Slavic flag unfurled — 

Thy deeds unfold thy passion; still are kept 
Faith unto death and hearts that all things dare. 

SWITZERLAND 

Amidst the sharp-clawed European kites, 

Eager to flesh their ruthless beaks with prey, 
And watchful where to strike and when to slay, 

This brood of falcons, nested on the heights, 

Nursed their staunch wings of freedom; days and nights 
For centuries they faced their foes — yes, they 
Have held their cloud-wrapped eyrie to this day, 

Inviolate, bounded by their ancient rights. 

The homes of Switzers! built too firm and free 
And near to Heaven to brook the rule of kings, 

Though kings were emperors; let the invader be 
Howe'er so mighty, forth to oppose him springs 

The hardy patriot, and each rock and tree 
Becomes an altar whereto Freedom clings! 



3Q2 SONNETS 



HOLLAND 

Rescued, half-drowned, from surly Neptune's hold, 
Whose white-maned steeds, still foiled, incessant leap 
Athwart the bulwarks of thy sunken keep, — 

With smouldering hearts, although thy skies be cold; 

Mother of crafts, with trading manifold, 
Yet dread to war with as in Caesar's day, — 
Holland, no grind of traffic scours away 

The gravings of thy struggle stern and bold. 

For those are records, wrought within thy soul, — 
Freedom's eternal dower! The Spaniard saw 
Thee, waif of nations, to thy succor draw 

The foe that wasted thee yet kept thee free; 

Than brook his rule above thy homes might roll 

The desolating chariots of the sea! 



A WARNING TO THE KAISER 

Ay, nurse thy pride and vaunt thee of thy state, 
O purple-robed Belshazzar! pour the wine 
And pledge thy fortune ! let the cressets shine ! 

Behold thy walls and watchmen mock at fate! 

Do not thy guards in proof around thee wait? 
Where, coward, fails thy majesty divine? 
What! thy soothsayers cannot read the sign? 

Thourt wanting — lo, the Mede is at thy gate! 

Freedom, for every pang thy votaries feel 
Thy retribution grows ! thy way is long 

And thou far patient, but thy hand of steel 
When once 'tis closed about the throat of wrong 
No power can loosen; — Tyranny is strong, 

But thou wilt break him on his own red wheel! 



SONNETS 303 

THE LIGHTED LIBERTY 

(Viewed from Brooklyn Bridge) 

Above the glow-worm" glimmering of the town, 

Beneath Heaven's dusky vault all spangled wide, 

The spider-latticed cables curve beside 
The spectral pillars to the Bridge's crown. 
'Midst the night-folded stillness looking down, 

Where huge, mysterious, dim-drawn phantoms glide 

Like shadow towers that swim the darkened tide 
Of some fantastic dream of old renown — 

I stand and gaze where, an embattled star, 
Dwarfing the ruddy sparks on shore and sea, 

One pure and constant beacon gleams afar, 
The flame that led us, cheered us, kept us free; 

Our lamp in peace, our fiery guide in war; 
The outflung torch of august Liberty! 

THE HALF-CENTURY REUNION AT 
GETTYSBURG 

Here rolled the iron tempest up the height, 
And here fell soldiers thick as new-mown hay; 
Three days the smoke of thundering battle lay 

Along these ridges; each succeeding night 

Fresh heaps of slaughtered forms appalled the sight 
Of torchmen on their rounds; till drew away 
The Southron ; then the uncrowded face of day 

Stared at the dreadful trophies of the fight. 

Here Reynolds fell ; there Armitage went down, 
With Pickett charging 'neath the thunder pall. 
'Twas fifty years ago; — the old renown 

Stands regnant. Peace her trophies brings to all 
Those sons surviving; — mark the olive crown 

For laurel, brothers of the bugle call! 



304 SONNETS 

EVENING AT CITY POINT, JAMES RIVER, 
1890 

Ho,w peaceful is the scene! the unshrouded moon 
Casts benediction o'er the daylight's grave. 
Scarce doth a vesper breathe, a ripple lave; 

Earth in her green, voluptuous garb of June, 

Faint o'er the verges of the wide lagoon, 
Exhales the breath of flowers; the azure wave 
Lies bright and steadfast as a crystal pave, 

Yea, even men's souls seem with this rest in tune. 

Yet here, too, passion raged; here once the roar 
Of mortars stunned the drowsy ear of night; 

Thundered the battery — screamed the hurtling shell; 

Here smoke and havoc blackened wide the shore ; 
This deep floor shook beneath the shock of fight, 

And men were demons, — this fair calm a hell! 

CHARLOTTE CORDAY 

That gentle, dark-haired maiden — can it be — 
Hounded with curses by the wolfish throng 
Of libertine Paris? What hath been her wrong? 

The Judith with her blood-bathed dagger see ! 

Oh, how her eyes burn deep with ecstasy! 

"For love of France" ! Why bind the cruel thong 
About her tender wrists ? Your hands are strong ; 

Have pity — Heaven's pure sacrifice is she! 

Ah, friends, how young and beautiful ! Love's part 
In her flames on life's altar; innocent-wise 

And proudly-sweet she stands; as on the cart 

She rolls to death she lifts her dawn-bright eyes 
And views with welcoming the kind Sunrise 

That comes to shrine her in its deathless heart! 



SONNETS 305 

SHAKESPEARE 

Only to name thee is to bring thy spell! 

And when I drain the intoxicating bowl 

Of thy rapt passion, lo, that sweet control 
Makes free my heart and burdens it as well. 
At times thy voice breathes Orpheus' plaintive shell; 

At times Jove's thunder, echoing pole to pole; 

Again thou dost Apollo's lyre control, 
Or Pan's sweet pipe, or Mars' stern trumpet swell. 

In thee all life grows regnant; thy proud range 
Of passion runs its gamut forth to God. 

Thine is a world of beauty's constant change, 
Sunrise and sunset, star and flowering sod. 

Yet with dim vistas terrible and strange, 

Into whose depths no one but thou hast trod! 



LINCOLN 

Four square he stood — and on all sides a man. 
The dust of party strife has fallen away 
And shaped this figure 'gainst the light of day, 

Built on the rugged, broad Cromwellian plan. 

Throughout the state his pregnant message ran, 
"For, with and by the People" — and that ray 
Of counsel o'er our destinies holds sway, 

An earth to Heaven irradiating span. 

He loved, toiled, fought and conquered ; all the while 
The brother murder madness bowed him down. 
His mirth saturnine eased the iron crown 

Of public service; with no plaint or guile 

He faced the age, filled wide with his renown ; 

And foiled blind hate with calmness and a smile. 



306 SONNETS 

ALFRED AND CHARLEMAGNE 

Twin stars of that long twilight! England, thine, 
One, and thine, France, the other; History 
Records no ampler names; and we who see 

Statecraft with glittering hook and flimsy line 

And specious bait of protestations fine 

Catching its gudgeons, and the sweaty crowd 
Trafficked and trampled by Wealth evil-browed, 

Might well for such stout, simple rule repine. 

Oh, English Alfred, wert thou living now, 

How would they vex at times thy steadfast mind, 

These Danes of politicians ! How thy brow, 
Truthteller, oft would darken! by the blind, 

Corrupt, and vaunting ring-rule of to-day, 

How grandly stands thy strong, old, earnest sway! 

CROMWELL 

Ay, call him a usurper — what you will — 
But, tyrant, never! for no vengeful frown 
Clouded the brow of the imperial clown; 

Who, erring oft, in malice wrought no ill. 

His hand was hard, yet England loved him still, 
So like his bride he held her; while Renown 
Gave him her blood-sprent amaranthine crown, 

And Prescience did with might his councils fill. 

Nations revered or feared him; — pale alarm, 
Stretched from the cloister to the Papal throne; 
The oceans then were England's and his own ; 

France, Holland, Spain, and Algiers felt his arm ; 
Broadcast by every wind his fame was blown; 

And Freedom, Fate, dwelt in that dreadful charm! 



SONNETS 307 



ABDUL HAMID, THE "SHADOW OF GOD" 

I SEE in the seraglio's secret hold 

A venomed wretch, alone, in guarded state, 
While sexless murderers his caprices wait, 

Their service bought with blows and blood-stained gold ; 

And thru the casement lattice come, deep-rolled, 
Mutterings and curses, until urged by hate 
The groundswell of sedition floods his gate; 

The Giaours' armed hand grows daily bold. 

The ghosts of martyred Christians haunt his sleep; 

The black assassin thru his nightmare strays; 
He hears the women scream, the children weep; 

The Crescent dewed with gore appals his gaze; 
"Allah is Great! the Shepherd loves his sheep!" 

For him Hell yawns and all her pits upblaze! 

GARIBALDI 

The child-sweet southern spirit! how it shone 
In thee, blithe player of war's desperate game! 
O'er Piedmont's venturous shield her sword became 

In thy swift hand a meteor, flashed a dawn, 

A herald streak of noontide! Thou art gone 
From earth, but thy unmatched heroic name 
Is zenith star in thy fair country's fame, 

The topmost jewel round her forehead drawn. 

Freedom's bold knight — she her resistless art 
Taught thee, her lion will; opposing odds 
But swelled thy triumph ; like an antique god's 

Thy soul unstintedly played out its part; 
No more, Italia, bow to Europe's rods, 

His name upon thy lips, within thy heart! 



308 SONNETS 

SALVINI 

I saw him once — he was that tortured Moor 

Whom Shakespeare limned with his earth-startling pen ; 
An awe-inspiring figure to one's ken, 

Whose suffering scarce could lengthen and endure. 

Maddened and bending to Iago's lure, 
Yet noble thru his frenzy; of all men 
Most thwarted and despairing; greatest when 

He made the vain heart-breaking murder sure. 

Sublime concept — that can so shake the soul 
With mimic thunder that the grave has stilled. 

Even now those rhythmic imprecations roll 
Thru memory till the heart of mind is chilled. 

Art has no ampler triumph — that takes toll 
Of feeling where no sense can shape or build. 



OTHELLO 

Alas, for love unwise that loves too well! 

She was the queen of thy most loyal heart; 

Dark Intrigue on thy trusting spirit fell, 

And Jealousy thrust deep her poisoned dart. 

Honor and Pride were throned midst thy desires. 

Honor and Pride both lost their sovereignty; 

Upon their altars flamed Revenge's fires; 

Fate to the Furies turned thy destiny. 

The greatness of thy Faith was made its loss; 

The merit of thy Love was found its blame ; 

Foul Murder bore a sacrificial cross; 

Rash Retribution stood in Justice' name; 

These broke thy heart, thou could'st not choose but die, 

Too great for life with Crime for life's ally. 



SONNETS 309 



IRVING 

I SAW him last as Shylock — time had then 
Mellowed his art and furnished the sublime 
To round his action; 'twas his later prime, 

The most impressive presence among men. 

As in a herd of deer a stag of ten 

He towered above his fellows; after time 
Never may see again such wondrous climb 

Toward the ideal in the craftsman's ken. 

Shylock has passed with him — save in thy page, 
O Shakespeare! he has vanished from our view. 

That father love, that avarice, pride and rage, 
That hate and cunning, no one may renew; 

He was not all of genius, but a mage 

So potent, doubting were not wise nor true. 

BOOTH 

The poetry of action claimed its king; — 
The realm of rhythm knew its overlord; — 
He was the Dane — his foot upon the board 

Fell with the tread of fate, — his soul a-swing 

'Twixt doubt and certainty ; Revenge's wing 
Sweeping him on and yet to qualms restored; 
Irresolute to the last; then with his sword 

Cutting the snarl of Circumstance's string. 

The impress of that scene is with me still; 

The dim-lit chamber and the mother's tears; 
The ghostly figure, towering and chill; 

The prince's courage shining thru his fears; 
The grace of movement, the upsoaring will, 

Abide and strengthen thru the passing years. 



310 SONNETS 

ON READING THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
BENVENUTO CELLINI 

With swagger and with cloak about him caught, 
Here view the vain, vindictive Florentine; 
Clothed with an artist spirit proud and keen, 

Which through a rapt and fiery passion wrought 

Works of undying beauty, and so bought 

The world's allegiance; bringing from that scene 
Of struggle purity out of ways unclean, 

That spirit of art for whose uplift he fought. 

Cellini, thy no less immortal book 

Lays like a scalpel bare the form of man, 

That inner frame, the soul. Through all thy time, 
Bloody and turbulent, thou didst not brook 

One faltering of thy hand, while thou didst plan 
Thy life-work flowering to its princely prime. 

JOHN HENRY BONER 

I knew him well, the gentle pensive soul 
Death had untimely marked; and in his eye 
The pathos of the doomed that to the sky 

Lifts a long hope disease may not control. 

Unto the warm, bright South his heart was whole; 
Far from the whispering pines that wooed his sigh, 
He trod life's fettered round, nor made reply 

To the rude fevered strife that claimed its dole. 

He passed beyond my ken, yet left behind 
The lingering memory cadence of his voice, 

And of his verse, so passion souled and kind. 
Alas, the first is soundless, though the choice 

Gift of his song survives, and in my mind 

And heart it echoes, "mourn not but rejoice." 



SONNETS 311 

THE HOUSE OF LORDS 

Ay, let them go! too long they've held at bay 

Hedged in by precedent the people's right. 

Once they were bold to quell a tyrant's might ; 
They stood a mail-clad rampart in their day 
'Gainst foreign thraldom; those have passed away 

Like stars that vanish in the dawning light. 

Now outworn rule and old observance trite 
With cankering blight and poison shadow sway 

Over the realm of England — o'er the height 
Of Time's new mason-work those branches gray, 

Moss-grown, decrepit, weave a creaking night 
Of old obstructions; rise, let in the ray 

Young heart of English Freedom ! deep then bite 
Thine axe, Democracy! to the trunk's base lay 

And clear the sapless dotage from your sight! 

DON QUIXOTE 

Gaunt, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling hack, 
Thy battered morion, shield and rusty spear 
Jog ever down the road in strange career, 

Both tears and laughter following on thy track; 

Stout Sancho hard behind, whose leathern back 
Is curved in clownish sufferance; mutual cheer 
The quest beguiling, as, devoid of fear, 

Thou spurrest to rid the world of rogues, alack! 

Despite fantastic creed and addled pate, 

Of awkward arms and weight of creaking steel, 

Nobility is thine; — the high estate 

That arms knights-errant for all human weal. 

How rare, La Mancha, grow such souls of late; 
Dear foiled enthusiast, teach our hearts to feel! 



312 SONNETS 

TO THE MOON-FLOWER 

Pale climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep 

When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon ; 
When lily bells fold to the zephyr's tune, 

And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep; 

What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep? 
Art thou enamoured of the siren moon 
That thus thy white face from the god of noon 

Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep? 

Poor, frail Endymion! know her lustre fine 

Is but the cold, reflected majesty 
That clothes the great sun's regent — borrowed shine 

Of Him who yields restricted ministry, 
Thy bright creator; he did ne'er design 

The proud, false queen should fealty claim of thee ! 



THE CONDOR 

High above clouds and mountains, through thin air 

Prone on his waving vans he rushing flies; 

The great dread corsair admiral of the skies, 
For prey and plunder ravening everywhere. 
The sun doth not so pitilessly stare 

As those red eye-balls glare with fierce surmise ; 

He stoops, but only to obtain a prize, — 
The struggling victim that his talons bear. 

Heroic strength and lawless majesty 

Dowering a ruthless vulture! born to slay, 

And rob the peaceful flocks of their increase; 

He shrinks at naught, untamed as he is free. 
He holds his stern and unremorseful way, 

And screams defiant protest against Peace! 



SONNETS 313 

HONOR AND FAME 

Honor, the virgin knight, bright vigil keeps; 

May Heaven assoil him and prevent him blame! 

While Fame, the pander, rides in Honor's name, 
In Honor's mail and his fair guerdon reaps. 
Honor upon his arms securely sleeps, 

While midnight phantoms shake the soul of Fame. 

Honor's clear saintly eyes are void of shame; 
Fame his misdeeds now vaunteth and now weeps. 

These ever cross each other in the field, 
Supposed allies; yet Honor holds in scorn 
The boaster, Fame, and when he winds his horn 

Fame shrinks beneath his gaudy, glistering shield. 
For Honor's titles stand secure and broad, 
And on his breast he wears the cross of God. 



LOVE AND TRUTH 

Love's, rosy robe is wrought with Truth's design, 

And Truth's white brows by Love are garlanded; 

Blindfolded Love by clear-eyed Truth is led, 
And Truth austere smiles oft on Love benign. 
While Love stands strong Truth doth not fret nor pine; 

While Truth holds firm Love fears no path to tread, 

But wears the amaranth on his royal head, 
And his fair hands bear clusters of the vine. 
These are the twain that ever walk the earth 

With offerings rich and greetings manifold; 
These the proud sponsors for the sons of Worth 

Who curb the traitor, Self, cruel and cold; 
Yea, without them no gracious thing hath birth; 

And Heaven by their high counsels is controlled. 



3H SONNETS 

WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE 

Knowledge the Proud sits oft in Wisdom's seat, 

With robe and sceptre, crown and orb of power ; 

While Wisdom wanders lone thru sun and shower 
With few to grant her shelter or to eat. 
Yet to proved souls is Wisdom Paraclete; 

Her heart is pure, her mind blooms like a flower; 

And quietly she waiteth for that hour 
When she shall reign with Knowledge at her feet. 

Wisdom hath light within; — few recognize 

Whence comes that smile, the sweetener of pain ; 

Or how the yearning of those patient eyes 
Works all unseen like fertilizing rain; 

Knowledge is moon-bright, hosts her rule obey, — 

But Wisdom turns the world and leads the day. 



PEACE 

Peace — what is peace? Not this — to dwell secure, 
A moth upon the downy edge of time, 
Wasting in careless ease life's summer prime, 

While others fight the battle and endure. 

Ah, no! this is the selfish devil's lure, 

A pinchbeck peace that hath no ringing chime; 
Peace knows no earthly price, no age or clime, 

But comes unasked to upright hearts and pure. 

No! war is the world's province — stress and strife 
And strenuous toil that never quits the field 

'Till Death reaps in his harvest; 'tis in pain 

That Progress brings her offspring into life; 
Peace hath no quality that earth doth yield — 

It comes from God and goes to God again. 



SONNETS 315 



FORTITUDE 

That is not failure, rightly understood, 

Though lacking furtherance, when we've wrought 
our best; 

If we have put our manhood to the test 
Nor found it wanting; if we, unsubdued, 
Suffer defeat, we have but taken food 

And water to our souls; shall be twice blest; 

Stronger in heart, not shrunken in the breast, 
Stamping Faith's signet on the hardening mood. 

Thus did Coligny, still defeated, rise 

Proudly unconquered ; thus did Alfred crown 

Constancy with success ; thwarted likewise 
Columbus reached the summit of renown ; 

Thus Washington opposed the troops of George, 

Undaunted, midst the snows of Valley Forge. 

THE UNSEEN WORLD 

The spirits of the dead are with us still ; 

Part of our being, instinct to our life, 

Familiars light and dark; all space is rife 
With influences that mould our plastic will, 
Unseen yet felt, unknown yet guessed at, till 

Death plucks away the mask of flesh, or strife 

Of soul wears out the body as a knife 
Frets thru its sheath then feels a naked thrill. 

For nature wars within us with a sense 

Mysterious, conjoined, yet not of her, 
Subduing yet subdued; but when the tense 

Bond of their union slackens, then the whirr 
Of the soul's wings is heard, our essence soars 
Transfigured, lighted from the eternal shores. 



316 SONNETS 



HUMANITAS 

Though faith in heaven be gone, not so in man; 

Nor is God wanting, though we know him not. 

If our primeval visions be forgot, 
We still weave dreams though on a saner plan. 
If once again we turn to reverence Pan, 

Love none the less has angels, and I wot, 

That should this life be all our bound and lot, 
Hearts still will yearn as erst when faith began. 

Hearts will o'erfiow with larger, sweeter thought; 

Hands will unclose and close in brotherhood; 
Blood will not flow for naught or worse than naught; 

Man will know man and life be understood; 
Religion's chain of orient pearls be brought 

To wreathe the shrine of Nature's holyrood. 



PERSONALITY 

I am not what I seem, nor any two 

See me alike or as myself I see; 

Nor does myself with my own self agree, 
But e'er in counterfeit myself I view; 
Ay, even to myself I stand untrue; 

Some see a ghost and think that ghost is me; 

And when they turn a searchlight on I flee 
Into that self whence all my shadows grew. 

For Nature doth in me exhaust her arts 

And weave her mysteries beyond human ken ; 

For my true self is made of many parts; 
In some one part I touch my fellowmen; 

Yet I, unknown, unknowing other hearts, 
Am but the dream life varies o'er again. 



SONNETS 317 

DUTY 

I have pledged life, not for itself alone, 

Nor for the happiness or renown it brings, 

Nor wealth, nor power, nor beauty, nor the wings 

Of enterprise, nor gay-browed Pleasure's tone. 

I have pledged life that ere my span be flown 
I might be known as one who earnest sings 
Of faith and love, of high and noble things, 

Unto the youth the coming age shall own. 

Yet I am little better than a voice 

Heard daily in the market-place whom men 
List idly and turn upon their way again; 

But on my spirit there is laid this choice 
Of service; let me do my duty then 

And let me in my duty's path rejoice. 



SCIENCE 

I saw the spangled curtain of the night 

Drawn backward by the radiant hand of day, 
Till like to streams of molten silver lay 

The water courses; soon wide grew the light 

Across the misty valleys; bathed each height 
And hoary mountain in its kindling ray, 
And gave o'er wakened earth a newer sway 

To life, a new enfranchisement to sight. 

So Science, not with miscalled wings of lead, 
Nor harpy-like, confounding — but with plumes 

All lustred with the rays of morning's prime, 

Dawns a benignant goddess; — on her head 

The amaranth of new faith and knowledge blooms; 

And through her soul and vision wake sublime. 



318 SONNETS 



THE TIDE OF TIME 

Born out of earthquake and the tempest's night 
I saw a mighty wave; and tossed like straw, 
Swam on its crest the drift of years; its maw 

Crowns, coronets, mitres, swords, gulped down from sight; 

And momently, from that long scarf of white 
A roaring came as of voices, and great awe 
Fell on me, and I heard a cry, "Old law 

Is dead, is dead! We live in the new light!" 

Still onward surged the wave, until the sky 

Rent suddenly, and Heaven's prismic bow was cast 
Across the waters; the contention vast 

Stood hushed, all still the swollen flood did lie; 
I heard a trumpet voice, that cried, "At last!" 

And lo, a dove with green palm branch swept by. 



DEATH 

Dread foe to life, thou bearer of the seal 
Of mystery and fate, I argue nought 
Against thee nor repine that Joy and Thought 

Must reach thee in the round of Fortune's wheel; 

For thy domain brings rest; to thy dread steel 

Are dragged Time's favors; prince and priest are brought 
To the one role with knave and drudge and wrought 

Into the framework of the common-weal. 

Yet Genius arms against thee — ceaseless toils 
The free, unquenchable spirit of the Lamp; 

Revives the fainting and the dead assoils; 

Even where thy banners surge, thy legions tramp, 

Art, life's proud Avatar, thy purpose foils, 

While Love, the evangel, braves thee in thy camp. 



SONNETS 319 



THE CLOSING WALLS 

Few live the truth, — in fortune few are free, 
And fewer still in spirit. We but wear 
The cap and badge of worldly, servile care, 

And catch faint glimpse of higher destiny. 

God help us! what we would we may not be; 

Our hearts, like opening flowers were pure and fair; 
Now lords are we of spirits starved and bare, 

We live no wiser for the ills we see. 

Oh, deadly blight of soul! the world doth gain 
Upon us daily, and sweet Nature's voice 

Is heard no more or faintly; we but strain 
To play the role of petty Caesars; choice 

Is ever leagued with interest, and we sneer 

Across the grave of what our youth held dear. 



LIFE'S VOYAGE 

Fate drives me forth upon an unknown sea — 

Ever I view the shoals that round me lie. 
Fond youth, adieu! Come, manhood, strong and free, 

Courage and purpose are the oars I ply. 

My sunny morning dreams, I pass them by; 
All gray the noon-tide clouds that hem me round; 

I hear afar the curlew's woeful cry, 
What care I if my boat is staunch and sound. 
Better to sink, than in sad soul profound 

To drive my bark amidst embaying cares; 
Better the tempest and the gaping wound 

Than stranded log-like on the world's affairs; 
Spread sail, and fly the banner from the truck — 
The voyage is on, bold heart, now try your luck! 



320 SONNETS 

THE RETURN 

Once more the green turf bends beneath my feet; 

The brooding silence of the woods sifts down 

Across my spirit; gone the dusty town, 
The noise and fretful fever of the street. 
Here spreads the balm of Nature, soothful, sweet; 

No Timon's curse comes here, no Caesar's frown ; 

Breaks not the clangorous strife of sword or gown; 
Only the soft breeze and the birds' "weet, weet!" 

I throw aside life's sombre cloak of care; 

Good-bye, Convention! Hope renew thy theme! 
Take, Mother, back thy world-worn, wayward child; 
The soul grows rhythmic in this charmed air. 

The floweret's zest is mine, the woodland's dream, — 
And with all life again I'm reconciled! 



GRAND MANAN 

A huge, black fort of Neptune, — 'gainst the sky 
It heaves its bastion through cold Fundy's pall, 
Scoured by a million winters ; round it brawl 

The hoarse-tongued breakers; there long-trailing fly 

The West-wind's rainy streamers; there untie 

Their hair the storm's shrill maenads; down its wall 
The lightning's jagged javelins carve and scrawl 

Jove's words as on the gust they thunder by. 

The gull screams wheeling o'er it — round it dives 

The deep, dark-green abyss; when days are fair 
The dingy fisher skiffs their lines unreel 
Close to the base; but woe to him who drives 
Blind on in storm; there hope hath no appeal — 
The monster's sides stand steep as man's despair! 



SONNETS 321 

THE WATER LILY 



Gemming the bosom of thy mother lake, 

Swayed to and fro through morning's zephyr hours, 
Or ripple-rocked to sleep as evening lowers, 

Folded until the sun's bright javelins shake 

Grey riot to heart of darkness — thou dost break, 
Wooing all hearts that haunt thy reedy bowers, 
Light as blown foam, the Nereid of the flowers, 

And virgin-pure for thine own beauty's sake. 

Pale lovely blossoms! as my rowboat slides 
Among your level targes floating green, 

Spreading a wind-swept carpet o'er the waves, 

Upon my sense your fragrant whiteness glides 
With ravishment; are ye the souls all clean 

Of fair frail girls who sleep in watery graves? 

II 

No, we are Daylight's children — we are born 
From out the ooze where lurks the water-snake, 
And where the perch and minnow harbor make, — 

White as the blest of Resurrection Morn. 

When from our watery cradles we are torn 

We droop with grief — in sweet complaining break, 
And fading die; we, vestals of the lake, 

Give praise to Him who doth our forms adorn. 

We envy no one's wealth; we dwell alone, 
Unthought of by our sisters of the plain; 
Ever we in our peaceful passion lie, 
Stars of the light-time, gazing up the sky 
As long as Day's fond glance is on us thrown — 
Then sleeping, dream that he will come again ! 



322 SONNETS 

SPRING MORNING 

Rqugh hearted Winter yields his realm to Spring, 
His diamond crown and ermine stained in flight. 
Lo, Spring hath ta'en the valleys! With delight 

She winds her echoing horn; on home-bound wing 

The truant birds flock to her welcoming; 

O'er earth her emerald cloak, embroidered bright, 
She flings; she doth the tongue-tied brooks invite 

To gossip while the early zephyrs sing. 

Now red-cheeked Morn in saffron vest, a-field, 
Trips down the hills and wakes the drowsy swains; 
The Earth hath washed her morning face with rains; 
The Buttercup her golden chalice rears 
To dews; the Daisy's gold-bossed, silver shield 
Gleams gaily, buttressed by a sheaf of spears! 



SUMMER NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY 

There is a veiled quiet in this night; 

A few faint stars peer through the curtain dun, 
Nor hath the stately moon usurped the sun, 

Who to the under world transfers his right. 

The drowsy shadows thicken o'er my sight 

Blotting the landscape out; the dark close-spun, 
Drips dews unseen, and now clear chiming run 

The pebbled brooks from yon fir-crested height. 

The winds lie dead asleep upon the wold, 

Tired with their wandering. Hist! one tinkling bell 
From a nigh pasture breaks the rhythmed spell 

Then leaves the stillness deeper; — a vapor rolled 
From off the mountain like a ghost doth glide 
Athwart the darkness — there is nought beside! 



SONNETS 323 



THE BATHER* 

In musing mood, listless and happy eyed, 
She sits upon the green bank of a stream, 
Wrapped in a veiled sun's summer woodland dream, 

While round her feet start windflowers purple-pied, 

And many a wilding shrub springs free beside 

Her sweet nude limbs, which in the sunlight gleam 
With maiden majesty, as they might seem 

Those of a forest nymph, half-deified. 

O friend, in her the creature of thy hand, 
I view the poet painter's loving task, 
That nothing doth of lust or traffic ask, 
And only speaks to brethren of the Band, 
The few who feel and, feeling, understand, 
And view the burning soul behind the mask. 

SUMMER NOON 

A noontide languor melts into the air; 

The brook beneath my feet is keeping tune 

Unto the lazy breezes' dreamy rune; 
The thrifty bees are humming everywhere; 
The blackbird whistles blithe and debonair; 

Around me is the varied, vivid June 

Of opulent Summer with her pleasant croon, 
Bathing the lea side with its mellow glare. 

Away, dull care — join soul in Nature's mirth! 

The favor of this pulsing morn is thine. 
See all the fallows drest in gala trim! 
Down such a mead Silenus with his girth 

Of vine leaves passed, his visage stained with wine, 
While flower-crowned maidens trolled the Bacchic hymn. 

* To Warren Davis on his gift of the picture to the author. 



324 SONNETS 

TO A FRIEND 

Dear friend, long distant, oft my thought to you 

Looks forth as mariner to the Northern Star; 
For you have stedfast shining, comrade true, 

That night but brightens, distance cannot mar. 
And I have faith, what griefs to leeward lie, 

Or head-winds take aback my steady sail, 
Or calumny o'er-cloud the smiling sky, 

Your cheer, accord, and favor will not fail. 
True fellowship hath a touch most wondrous fine, 

A voice that strikes no dull material ear, 
A gaze that draws the soul; no pinchbeck shine, 

No counterfeit custom, passes current here; 
For he hath fortune, beyond need to spend, 
Who makes his heart the treasury of his friend. 



LOVE 

Love frees us from ourselves yet makes us slaves; 

He moves our souls yet gives us fixed intent; 
He whelms us like a barque o'ercome with waves, 

Then towards the stars he lifts us, eminent. 

Before his shrine the haughtiest crests are bent, 
And oft he clothes the clown with princely rage; 

He hath a will brooks no arbitrament, 
Yet hath he patience of a meagre wage. 

His sweetest pleasures ever are kin to pain; 
His choicest blessings oft bring direst curse; 

Man would lose all for Love and count it gain, 
Though howsoe'er a niggard of his purse; — 

Thus in Love's quiver all contention lies 

Twixt good and ill — his shafts are women's eyes! 



SONNETS 325 

THE CONJUNCTION OF LOVE 

Like as two waves, by spheric pulses driven, 

Rolling from Orient and from Occident, 
Meet in mid-sea beneath the arch of Heaven 

And forthwith mingling are forever blent — 
So may two souls, though Nature at beginning 

Long from sweet converse sundered them afar, 
Yet fatefully their destined courses winning, 

Meet and unite beneath Love's fixed star; — 
For come all winds and sweep the earth-round ocean, 

Bearing the thunderbolt within its breast, 
Till the lashed deep is fevered to commotion, 

Making his moan and never finding rest, — 
Yet these two souls once met can never part, 
For mind hath wed with mind and heart with heart! 



THE SECURITY OF LOVE 

There bides no bulwark against adverse fate 

Save in the shield and helm of faithful love; 

With them a man, though shaken, towers above 
The throng, investured with that proud estate. 
The hell-born host will shun such brow sedate, 

Nor e'er attempt that heart's rich treasure trove; 

For, like to Noah's olive-bearing dove, 
The promise fails not nor the hopes abate. 

For mutual strength o'er-tops the mutual need; 

And mutual faith o'er-crowns the mutual fear ; 
And mutual toil shall earn the double meed, 

And mutual hope bring forth unchanging cheer; 
For in thy love I must prove all indeed, 

While in my love thy favor grows not sere. 



326 SONNETS 



THE FORTITUDE OF LOVE 

Sweetheart, what storms may come (and not a few 
May dark our lives' horizon), yet I know, 
Clasped hand in hand, come all the winds that blow, 

We shall not blench but front them, for we two 

Sail not for pleasure of the public view 
Through shallow bays, but to the ocean go 
Where the skies ring the sea, the deep tides flow, 

And lay our course by one clear star and true. 

And round our course the ocean bird shall scream, 
The harbinger of faith, against the gale; 
Yea, every sea-mew shall take up the tale 

And bear it to the ocean's fartherest gleam, 

How our two hearts have trimmed the tautest sail 

That ever held the love-winds o'er the beam. 



THE FAVOR OF LOVE 

To me hath Heaven given a work for doing, 

I may not shirk it or I wreck my life; 
All slothful instincts to my nature suing 

Wage with my high intent a civil strife. 
My day is overcast nor can I see 

The path to lead me up the steep incline; 
And all the summit's wrapped in mystery; 

Alone must bear the brunt, this heart of mine. 
Yet not alone — for love is at my side 

To cheer me through the dark and devious way ; 
I can bear all if love with me abide, 

Its patient hope adorns life's toilsome day; 
For of my life is love the treasure trove; 
For love is life, and life to me is love. 



SONNETS 327 

THE QUALITY OF LOVE 

My love is like a river still and deep, 

Not as a swollen torrent rushing strong; 
Round tender memories its lingerings creep, 

They bear a burden of bright hopes along; 

Its banks are broidered o'er with flowers of song; 
Its depths reflect the rainbow tinted skies; 

Its beauteous landscape doth to me belong; 
Intrudes no poacher with unhallowed eyes. 

And as I float upon its limpid breast, 
I near the confluent wave of my desires, 

On which the darling of my heart doth rest, 
To whom the manhood of my hope aspires; 

And lest rogue Fancy should a recreant prove, 

I'll drown him in the deepest depths of love. 



DEVOTION OF LOVE 

Whene'er I read the mighty bards of old 

Where mortal love weds immortality, 
I would as high thy own dear image hold 

That after time thine heir through me might be. 

I first would laud thy passion pure and free, 
Thy sweetness next that grudgeth not its dole, 

Thy grace which charms all life, thy constancy, 
Thy beauty last which mirrors all thy soul. 

For half my heaven is born in thy bright eyes, 

Those twins of deep, dark splendor, kind and true. 

My wintry care in genial summer dies 

When thy full sun of beauty breaks anew. 

Even Death itself would one last sweetness be 

If I, in dying, could but die for thee! 



328 SONNETS 

IMMORTALITY OF LOVE 

When you and I commingled are with dust, 
Nor one survive who knew our forms in life — 
When we have crossed beyond the bounds of strife, 

Nor may one say, "I found them kind or just"; 

Then will the leafage of our love, I trust, 

Bloom in this verse and in true hearts grow rife, 

maiden, sweetener of the name of wife, 
A star whose shine no smirch of time may rust. 

Your life thru me may best expression find; 

And I in you best prove what life is worth; 
For while I sing you queen of womankind, 

Each lover there will read his own love's birth. 
Ay, we in lovers' hearts shall live enshrined; 

1 for my song — you as the Flower of earth. 



CONSTANCY 

Constant to thee! ay, while these lips take breath, 

Or while the heart throbs to its spoken vow! 
Constant to thee! even beyond Time and Death, 

And when the laurel withers from my brow! 
Yes, I am thine! for I of truth am nought 

Unless I find my complement in thee; 
Then why should I indulge a wayward thought? 

I lose myself when I inconstant be. 
For Constancy is the first-loved of Heaven, 

Twin sister of the anchor-maiden, Hope; 
Then let me in thy gracious heart be shriven, 

Though Fancy wander with the world for scope; 
If blue-eyed Faith gave birth to Constancy, 
Then am I constant, who keep faith in thee! 



SONNETS 329 



TO 



Ay, more than when in blush of girlhood's bloom; 

The world a fairyland around thee lying, 

And every sylph of sun-dyed fancy flying 
Between thee and the nearby cypress gloom, 
With Innocence thy handmaid, Joy thy groom, 

Ere Hope had strayed and Faith had no denying, 

When only thy Ideal taught thee sighing, 
And only Pity led thee to the tomb — 
I love thee — for the chrism of earthly pain 

That robbed thee of thy gayness, yet did thrill 
Thy rarer sensibilities, made plain 

The higher grace of life with lowlier will; 
The lily is sweeter for the cloud and rain, 

And care and grief have left thee lovelier still! 



TO 



When I reflect that this warm heart of mine 
Must chill, fail, wither and to dust decay, 
And I no more shall view the face of day, 
Nor drink again the air of Spring like wine, 
Nor hear the birds their matin loves refine, 
When all my memory is a mouldered bay, 
And I have mingled with the shadows gray 
That throng beyond the senses' border line; — 
Then when I think of all thou bringst to me, 

Fresh pleasures of the Spring or music's voice; 
Thou of sweet shade and fruitage, my palm tree 
In this parched desert — thou my only choice 
In the whole world of women — heart and breath 
Grow sorrowful at wasteful, envious Death. 



33Q SONNETS. 

THE IDEAL 
i 

I had a vision of a fair maid's face; 

A dream of brook-brown eyes and midnight hair, 

Of swan-like neck and breast, the queenly air 
Of Dian, full accoutred for the chase; 
Thus Fancy led her radiant forth from space, 

All sweet and stately, beauteous, kind, and rare; 

"Alas!" I said, "where may I find her, where?" 
And locked my heart upon this for a space. 

Then, like the rose-bud swelling with its dream, 

My fancy heaved those breasts and brimmed those eyes; 

Oft from those outlets of the soul a beam 
Fell on me from the spirit's inner skies ; 

I said, "Lie there within my heart, — I deem 
O Love, no flesh may ever make thee prize." 

THE IDEAL FOUND 
ii 

So, like a miser fondling his dear gold, 

Oft would I count those pure perfections o'er, 
Hugging to heart my wondrous, earthless store, 

Whose charms shamed all life's glories manifold; 

Then with a bitter mockery I grew bold, 
For there was not in prose or poet's lore 
Such jewel found as my proud fancy wore — 

"This, too, will vanish when my veins grow cold." 

But as I went all dully on my round, 

Nought hoping, seeking, for my dream-land mate, 
I entered suddenly on enchanted ground, 

Invading Heaven by some rosed postern gate — 
For in thy form my loved ideal I found, 

And in thine eyes I stood betrayed of Fate! 



SONNETS 33i 

TO ASTREA 
{Eight sonnets in the Elizabethan manner.} 



FAIR art thou as when Spring and Summer join; 
Spring o'er thy form and Summer in thy heart; 
Like the opposing image on a coin 

Beauty and grace their equal world impart. 
Like the Spring's blossoms stand thy cheeks in bloom, 

And like the Summer cherry is thy lip; 
Yet Spring and Summer both shall front their doom, 
And wintry Death thy buoyant beauty trip. 

Then think on all the raptures thou shalt lose, 
If thou to love too long thy charms deny; 

For Fate may then thy foolish claims refuse, 
And thy proud favors withered all shall die; 

While the pale ghosts of lovers thou hast slain 

Will rise and thy cold cruelty arraign. 

11 

Like the queen bee art thou and they the drones 

Who on thy course triumphal still attend; 
Lovers who mark thy passage with their moans 

And for thy favor life and substance spend; 
Or like the pelican who doth repast 

Its young with its own blood, so do their hearts 
Squander their pulses, even to the last, 

On thee who dost repay them with false arts. 

For tho thou art Time's darling, Summer's joy, 
Thy soul is barren of Love's flowering ruth; 

Created wert thou leaky to annoy 

And make thy mock of fealty and truth. 

So frozen thy heart, that let Love shoot his best, 

His arrows still fall blunted from thy breast. 



332 SONNETS 



in 

Light as the wandering thistledown thou art, 

Sowing in fallow soils its freight of tares; 
For Nature formed a bubble of thine heart 

Wherein is limned its fancy's flaunting wares. 
For thou dost smile on all with equal grace 

And seem'st to grant yet ever dost deny; 
Like as a snare outspread thy beauteous face 

Ever shows love yet giveth love the lie. 

Surely God did thy comely features plan 

To shine around thee here an earthly Heaven; 

Surely instead of torment unto man 
Nature intended thee all joy to leaven; 

Yet God and Nature both are disobeyed; 

Joy hast thou slain and Love thou hast betrayed. 



IV 

Give me thy love I say or take my breath! 

One of the twain englobeth my desire; 

I am consumed; Heaven in his ire 
Reads me in torture what thy sweet lips saith. 
Upon me oft thy false smile lingereth, 

Like winter's sun upon a woodland byre, 

Coaxing some early hyacinth to suspire 
In bloom, and then forsake him to his death. 

Sure thou hast none with God, tho thy blest face 
Might draw impassioned angels from the skies; 

Nor sanctified art thou with Heaven's grace, 
Altho my Heaven is regnant in thine eyes; 

Tho love for thee should drag me down to Hell, 

Even there thy feigned love would make me well! 



SONNETS 333 



Wilt thou condemn thy servant to despair 

Whose only fault is too much loving thee? 
Lo, thou shalt stale and he become Time's heir, 

While even thy scorn shall his advancement be. 
For with his pen while he thy beauty paints, 

A just revenge upon thee shall be taken; 
For Love himself, thy cold caprice attaints, 

When Age shall prove thee faded and forsaken. 

So in this verse when future time shall read 

Thy rivalship to Venus' empery; 
It will as well for flattery paint thy greed 

And thy disdain and cruel mastery; — 
That stripped by Age of charms and without friend, 
Love did against thee poisoned arrows send. 



VI 

When in my dreams I am by Hope beguiled, 

And thou art kind as thou art fair, in face; 
Queen of this earth and Heaven's own favored child, 

Who dost abound in wit and sprightly grace; 
Then when I wake and sense the cruel cheat, 

With all my happy dreams abused by day, 
Could I the witness of hard fact defeat, 

And with illusion still my spirit pay, — 

If I could hood the falcon of my heart, 
And make its jesses of thy witching hair; 

As thou art false redeem thee in mine art, 

Until men's lips should laud thee everywhere; — 

Then, tho thy falsehood still gives Truth the lie, 

Truth grows in me and durst not thee deny. 



334 SONNETS 



VII 

Thou hast no truth nor I no recompense; 

False as thou art I must for needs be true; 
Thy craftiness I miscalled innocence, 

For which I now in heart must wear the rue. 
That voluntary bondage I renounce, 

Yet daily to my conscience am forsworn; 
So light thy heart it weighs not sure an ounce, 

Mine hangs like lead yet proves the prick of scorn. 

Sweet as thou art and fairer than the rose, 
Thou bear'st a deadlier weapon than a sword; 

Thy hapless victims are transfixed by those 

Darts from thine eyes which no address can ward; 

Content if they may warm their hearts awhile 

In the false, fickle solace of thy smile. 



VIII 

Thy beauty like an ignis fatuus plays 

Across the yearning gaze of trusting souls; 
Lovers who wander forth in devious ways 

Yet never swerve the nearer to their goals. 
Moths are they, by the traction of thine eyes 

Drawn to their death, and on their passion's wing 
Crippled and scorched and made a hapless prize 

To thy caprice's thoughtless cruel sting. 

For thou dost on the ruin of those hearts 

Build high the triumphs of thy peerless face; 

Queen of vain prayers and mistress of false arts, 

Thou grant'st no quittance and thou yieldst no grace, 

Content to pleasure thy remorseless way 

Over the graves of those whom thou dost slay. 






A GARLAND OF SONNETS 



TO SHAKESPEARE 

If I have earned some favour of good men, 

Or if my song hold aught of just or true, 

This happy fortune to thy grace is due, 
Who things unseen hast brought within my ken; 
Who hast redeemed my shallow courses when 

I would run glittering on the public view, 

And led'st me into quiet fields anew, 
And turnecfst me safe from many a noisome fen. 
I fly to thee when wounded, worn, and faint, 

And thou upholdest me against thy knee; 
Thy volume is my rubric; no attaint 

Dwells in its page, nor no absurd decree. 
Companion, guide, then friend — while Life's acquaint 

With love, thy words sustain me, make me free! 



HOMER 

TIME hath no shore, nor History port for thee, 
Thou first great admiral of the fleets of Song! 
To thee the winds, the waves, the clouds belong — 
The heart and brain of broad humanity. 
Thy theme swift-winged, an eagle's flight, and free, 
All tireless sweeps this varied world along, 
Wide-shadowing all the crawling, fluttering throng, 
Unbounded as the shining, thundering sea. 

From thy stored coffers craftsmen age on age 
Have filled their treasuries to remint the gold; 
No alien verse can thy full soundings hold; 

While wise Ulysses' guile, Achilles' rage, 

Doomed Hector's love, from thy dead tongue are rolled, 

And still dead gods war in thy deathless page. 

CHAUCER 

The heart of Merrie England sang in thee, 
Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of Morn! 
How from that dim and mellow distance borne 

Floats down thy chiming measures pure and free, 

Minstrel of Pilgrim pleasaunce! Pageantry, 
And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn 
The froth of malt, and Love triumphant, lorn — 

Thy England lives in these that live through thee! 

Thine is the jocund Springtime; — winsome May, 

Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight! 

The cheer of pastoral breath is in thy lay, 
And in thy graver verse thy country's might. 

O, Pipe of Pan at England's break of day, 
Her noon re-echoes with thy clear delight! 
337 



338 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

TASSO 

Love gilds thy laurel, — love was found thy blame ; 

Yet, brightest in the dungeon shone thy muse. 

Not Este, no, nor Italy, might refuse 
Thy due — the poet's wreath, the deathless name. 
Thine honor lustres in thy tyrant's shame; 

The cold cell's damps were Inspiration's dews; 

The world hath won through what thy hope did lose, 
O Tasso, king of hearts, and heir of fame! 

Ferrara's court is dust. Thy passioned dream 

A grand, immortal pageant did create 
O knightliest bard! Rinaldo's hero-gleam 

Is thine, thrice glorified; thy proud estate, 
The Lyre, the Sword, and Love — in each supreme; 

Life's splendid protest at the doors of Fate! 



SPENSER 

I've watched him stroll with Raleigh by the wood, 
Or Sidney, near the Mulla's rippling brim, 
While Nature crooned her Summer-evening hymn, 

Till o'er the fields the new moon's sickle stood. 

I've heard calm words of courtly brotherhood 
Chime like an Angelus through the ages dim, 
And they, whom all else honored, honored him, 

My Spenser, votary of the Holy Rood. 

They rose and passed through Honor's troubled sky; 

Each quenched in blood his fitful, fervent star; 
He dwelt apart, unknown, and fixed his eye 

Where aureoled Beauty beckoned him afar. 
Thy Lion, Maid, and Knight shall never die, 

O Childe, for of them England's glories are! 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 339 



MARLOWE 

For him the ancient heavens relumed their fires 

And starred his crown of songs with lambent gleams; 
Down one sweet song a nightly cresset gleams — 

'Tis Hero's beaconing her love's desires. 

Yet dark and thundrous, as when Faust expires, 

And veined with lightning stands that mount of dreams 
Down which the lava of his passion streams, 

Or soars from off its cloud-enshrouded pyres. 

He was the Baptist heralding the morn 

Of Poesy's adored Prince of Light. 
He hath no sponsor save his muse forlorn; 

A voice all sweetness and impetuous might; 
A heart unbridled and a hope death-shorn 

Remains — and squandered blood that hides from sight! 



SHAKESPEARE 

When the brave tackle of Life's craft is torn, 
And Hope's high pennon frays before the blast, 
My star of guidance vanished in the Vast, 

And the dun night grown deathful and forlorn — 

Then, turning fain to thee, the gates of Morn 
Swing heaven-wide, and the clouds, all overcast, 
Are rolled from sight; the rocks and shoals are passed; 

Safe on thy affluent ocean I am borne; 

There I hear Ariel singing; there they file, 
The birds of Faery to their hid sea lair; 

There with unnumbered kiss Aurora's smile 
Beams roseate, there she shakes her golden hair; 

While down the enameled deeps, in sportive guile, 
The sea-nymphs flash their ivory arms in air! 



340 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

MILTON 

Next to our mightiest mightiest dost thou stand, 
Great heart of patience, charged with patriot flame, 
Shining thy stateliest midst thy country's shame, 

A nobler Samson to that time's demand. 

Thou Orb of Song! whose prismic beams expand 
Still o'er thy country — brightening forth her claim 
To empire; prouder, sweeter for thy name 

Than all the prescience that her courts command. 

As when within that green Italian vale 

The Kiss of beauty touched thy sleeping brow, 
So did the Muse thy purpling years endow 

With consecration to that sounding tale 

Of Earth and Heaven that moves before us now, 

And doth o'er Time and shifting modes prevail. 



DRYDEN 

Stout, crowned with praise, the wits around his chair, 
Sipping his cordial or his cup of tea, 
Full primed with aphorisms choice or free, 

Sat "glorious John," who trimmed to every air! 

The biggest brawn on the arena there, 

He shook the town with vauntings, then on knee 
Bartered his birthright for a huckster's fee, 

And thrust his muse aneath a lordling's care. 

Still he brought valiant service ; none that day 
Might bide the baited gladiator's blows; 

His ponderous truncheon crushed the foe at bay; 
How grand to watch him on MacFlecknoe close! 

The drums resound, the trumpets loudly bray 
As down the age that lordly galleon goes! 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 341 



POPE 

Behold the foe of Grub Street's rival schools, 
The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, 
Forging firm couplets of heroic chime, 

And routing all his masters at their rules! 

How brave an arsenal of shining tools 
He brought to shape his fanciful sublime, 
Spurning each proud Maecenas of the time, 

And shoving all the dunces from their stools! 

And you deny him greatness? Would to-day 
Your acrobatic bards could fill his place! 

His art and range were bounded? Who can sway 
More forceful measures in such narrow space? 

Yield him, O Fame, thy brightest three-leaved bay, 
Mind, manners, modes — the Horace of his race! 



BURNS 

He was my earliest, nearest, sweetest friend ! 

His songs starred all my firmament of dreams; 

Through them I caught the first auroral gleams 
Of Her whose smile will haunt me to the end. 
Here was my gold, the gold I might not spend ; 

Here was my heaven, a heaven of earthly beams; 

I heard that rapture rippling like the streams; 
I heard the Loves their rhythmic voices blend. 

Ye banks of Ayr, how happy should ye be 

Whereon the feet of your dear minstrel trod! 

For even the sun, methinks, more tenderly 
Than other turf must kiss your lowly sod. 

O happy Scotland, earth doth envy thee 
Thy kingly ploughman, thy disguised God! 



342 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

SCOTT 

Those broad bright Marches, Ballad and Romance, 
Never were ruled by baron bold like thee! 
No knight to Heaven or Beauty bent the knee 

With more proud-souled devotion in his glance. 

All stately as the Lilies of Old France 
The banner of thy Fancy floated free, 
O'er damsels, gallants, clansmen, monkish glee, 

Pageants and courts, and tourney's crash of lance. 

It gathered brilliance from ancestral skies; 

It pictured Love, his dole and holiday; 
Widely it blazoned deeds of high emprise, 

Or flung forth wassail, feud, and gramarye; 
Or caught the gleam and glint of targe and glaive, 
And blew to Border gales and watched the tartans wave! 



BYRON 

Beloved Greece, thy wreath adorned his pall ! 

The hero of thy resurrection time. 

The vine-crowned Titan girt with power sublime, 
Almost accomplished Heaven; unfearing all, 
He faced the levin and the thunder brawl 

Scaling the heights of Song; his rebel prime 

Pelion on Ossa planted; then with rhyme 
Transcendent on his lips reeled down the wall. 

He fell, hard-fighting; dire the clash and clang 

Earth heard through all her limits — then sleek jays 

Piped chattering funeral, and foul charnel kites 

Fed on the warm, proud heart; but wide outrang, 

Sweet Poesy, thy plaint along the ways, 

And Love and Freedom brought their tribute rites. 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 343 

KEATS 

Just as the earliest flowers began to blow, 

(He felt the daisies growing o'er his grave) 
His fevered heart found rest; those grasses wave 

Unconscious o'er the form that sleeps below; 

Yet there the "rathe primroses" surely know, 
And tender violets (howsoever rave 
The rude winds o'er his slumber) that he gave 

Them human love in human hearts to grow. 

His "name was writ in water?" still 'tis called 
By every dryad's ghost that mournful fleets! 

That name the Summer's pageant hath extolled; 
That name the Autumn's requiem repeats; 

But he, with charms of Faery deep enthralled, 

Hears no dull earth-tones echoing "where is Keats!" 



SHELLEY 

To shore the sea-nymphs buoyed their captive dead, 
Touched by a human grief; yes, there lay hand, 
Heart, tongue, and brain of that august command, 

All — save the soul that Heaven to music wed. 

Clung curling yet the pale locks round the head; 
Silent and prone upon the drifted sand, 
He clasped her still, his loved Italian land, 

The foster-mother to whose breast he fled. 

We raised him on the pyre — in one great shine 
The body chased the fleeting shade — 'twas meet, 

That which had given the flaming soul a shrine 
Should incorrupt as that bright soul retreat; 

Yet, heart of proof, thy substance still divine, 
Lingering in earthly love, lay at our feet! 



344 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

COLERIDGE 

Thy mind and heart — the dome of Kubla Khan ! 

These twain were wed, like mountain joined to sea, 

In lofty, broad, cloud-merged sublimity, 
With words that awe yet soothe the soul of man. 
From Earth to Heaven thy circling vision ran, 

Yet, free in thought, thy life thou coulds't not free; 

The Knight of Poesy, enchained in thee, 
Slept on his arms and ne'er fought out his plan. 

Yet, Truth, divined in dreams, blooms best in Art; 

One dream, O mystic, blown within thy mind, 
Thy Mariner's tale, of Love's own life a part, 

This wizard bay-wreath doth thy temples bind; 

This orphic banner floats to every wind — 
One cross of service blazoned on thy heart! 



WORDSWORTH 

The quiet of the woods was in his soul 

And in his song were winds and murmuring streams; 

Across his vision broke Love's rarest gleams, 
And English faith held o'er him proud control. 
He was Truth's eremite with beechen bowl; 

The wayside life and legend shaped his themes, 

Led softly through his meadowy realm of dreams, 
But round the heights rang Freedom's trumpet-roll ! 

Prophet and priest and bard — the humble throng 

He loved and voiced, from the great Mother drew 
His litanies and choruses; the blue 

Of Heaven and green of Earth illumed his song. 
He was the Joshifa of an art made new, 

And of his peers the Godfrey chaste and strong. 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 345 

HOOD 

There, midst his children's noisy, prattling play, 

Hard by the dusty city's iron clang, 

A wing-spurred Hermes from dull earth he sprang 
And soared untrammeled through the azure day. 
That plumed Fancy oared its joyous way 

O'er magic oceans where the mermaids sang; 

Then veered once more where human voices rang 
Of Love, Want, Crime, and Boyhood's happy day. 

Alas, again the pack-horse of the Press, 

He folded close his pinions' glistering pride, 
And to the mill of jesting Rhyme was tied, 

To strain his heart-strings in that vile duress; 
Yet even the ignoble task he glorified — 

Through that sad mirth still flashed his loveliness! 



SCHILLER 

Both lyric wreath and Thespian crown were thine, 
And thine the Germans' pledge from mount to sea; 
For thy first thought, to make the people free, 

Was to those hungering souls Love's corn and wine. 

The hapless Mary's hope illumes thy line, 

While Wallenstein's dark form abides with me 
Since, when a lad, I laid upon my knee 

Thy heart, all throbbing through its leathern shrine. 

The nations' tocsin thine ! Thy Bell is heard 
On ocean coasts scarce known to thee by name; 

The deathless cadence of Tell's dauntless word, 
Hath wed the Switzer's Fatherland to fame; 

While Swabian youths, by thy bold measures stirred, 
Their proud old Eberhard's liberties proclaim! 



346 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

GOETHE 

Forth from the jungle of dark creeds he may 

Who wills walk by thy star's unfaltering shine, 

O Liberator Soul! Thou dost define 
And hold life's secrets in wise-guarded sway; 
And yet thy art looms amplest, and thy lay 

Pours forth enlightening flame; and as the Rhine 

Ripples to sea, thy human-pulsing line 
Speeds world round, broadening its imperial way. 

Goetz, Wilhelm Meister, Faust — no haughtier themes 
By wizard genius e'er conceived or penned ! 

These will not cease "to feed our lake of dreams," 
Nor will churl Time outbrave them at the end. 

Thought — Love — inwoven thus thy laurel gleams; 
Poet and Seer — yea, wisest, truest Friend! 

BERANGER 

(At the Coronation of Charles X.) 

Yes, there he stands — you mark him down the street, 
Yon, dream-eyed, little, bald, round-shouldered man! 
While Paris thrums her day-long rataplan 

Of loud huzzas and million-surging feet. 

Tyrtseus bold is he, Catullus sweet! 

Or well had passed in Tempe's Vale for Pan 
In modern garb; draw nearer now and scan 

The form of one whom kings have feared to meet! 

Ay, sirs, here is the king! That shape who goes 
All drums and trappings merely stuffs the crown; 

Here rusty black and there the ermine shows; 
The throne's a candle for our clerk's renown ; 

That galley toward the hungry Maelstrom rows; 
This shallop storms nor hidden rocks may drown! 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 347 



HUGO 

Though banished, Prospero, to thy mid-sea isle, 

State thou maintaindst most ample; thou could'st call 
Thy choiring Ariel, or sea-monsters haul 

From sounding caves by magic's strenuous wile; 

Thou could'st the storm unchain, make ocean smile, 
Or hold the hearts and minds of men in thrall; 
Yet Jeanne (Miranda, dearer far than all 

Thy art) could aye thy darkest hour beguile. 

Beyond the surge thy natal dukedom lay, 
Dominion of brave hearts; thy dreaming eye 

Watched with paternal longing day by day 
Its coast-line, where pale Freedom rose to die, 

'Til fell the usurper; then to ampler day 
Restored thy passionate slave of sea and sky. 



TENNYSON 

Thy fame stands wide as England's! If I lay 
One song-wreath at thy feet, 'tis not to grace 
So much thy triumphs, or thy high-throned place 

Amongst the minstrels of the modern day. 

As to confess thy erstwhile sovereign sway 
O'er my affections; thine was once a space 
Near Shakespeare; if that splendor Time efface, 

Its beam grows mellower, may not pass away. 

Thou art our own King Arthur — I, a knight 
Unscutcheoned, unannounced in lists of fame; 

Content to win, when proved, some slight acclaim 
From lips like thine; unwilling most to fail 

In service or in vigil; keeping bright 

Armor like thine in quest for Holy Grail. 



348 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

BROWNING 

The tangled currents of the rhythmic seas 

Stream through thy song with many a swirl and sweep ; 

With storm and cloud and sunshine o'er the deep, 
And bright waves lapping to the variant breeze. 
Thou hast conned secrets 'tween Jove's mighty knees, 

And kenned the vision of life's toiling steep; 

Hast heard the strong men groan, the women weep, 
And drank earth's gloom and glory to the lees. 

What though thy careless hand hath jarred the strings? 

Thy harp still rings to Thought and Beauty true; 
Though from Italian earth thy phcenix springs, 

Her gaze strikes ever toward the English blue. 
O, teacher, brave and wise, the proudest things 

Of Faith and Love through fire have come from you! 



ARNOLD 

The World denied thee gold — Heaven gave thee verse; 

A burst of morn on Learning's peaks of snow! 

Under sweeps ever Emotion's tidal flow 
And therein Love her fair form doth immerse. 
Nature and Art, these twain, thy mother and nurse, 

Mixed fine thy mould through thy grand age to grow; 

Sonorous, pure, their mingled clarions blow, 
Unchecked by Time or Change, above thy hearse. 

Sohrab and Rustem, Tristram, Marguerite — 
The twain of Homer's large, authentic breed; 
The third, Love's Knight, faithful in word and deed; 

The last, Love's perfect flower — a kindred sweet! 
These for thy fame, O royal palmer, plead, 

And lay their chaplets blooming at thy feet! 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 349 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

Here find the poet's scrip, — his ready pen, 
The staff of service on his pilgrim round, 
Now laid aside; for he in sleep is bound, 

No more to wander through the ways of men; 

But these his furnishings, ingathered when 
He wandered all Arcadia's laurelled ground, 
The cheer and nurture of his journey found, 

He hath bequeathed them to the world again. 

Herein note Love, his crust of daily bread, 

Romance, his flask of wine, and Reverie sweet, 

The rich-chased missal brought from Orient clime ; 
Here also Hope, his belt, and from his head 

His scallop-shell of Fancy; from his feet 
The rhythmic sandals of his passion, Rhyme ! 



EMERSON 

Voice of the deeps thou art! But not the wild, 

Ungoverned mouthing of the wind-lashed waves; 

Nor yet the dirge of billows over graves, 
But crooning, like a mother o'er her child. 
Through thee gross earth with heaven is reconciled, 

Thy songs, like anthems through cathedral naves 

Dispel confusing passion; never raves 
The storm along thy cloisters undefiled. 

Light of the deeps thou art! as forth I glide, 
From rock and whirlpool far, and tempest's roar, 
Sudden there looms an ever verdurous shore, 
Whose towers in the still wave stand glorified, 
Where thou, the Virgil who hast been my guide, 
Lead'st me and leav'st me rapt at Heaven's door! 



350 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 

LONGFELLOW 

The New- World's sweetest singer! Time may lay 
Rude touch on some, his betters, yet for me, 
His seat is where the throned immortals be, 

The chaste affections answering to his sway. 

As fair, as fresh as children of the May, 

His songs, spring up from wood and sun-bathed lea, 
Yet oft the rhythmic cadence of the sea 

Rolls 'neath his verse and speeds its shining way. 

In borrowed robes our English buckram yields 

Small charm of style, but his he wears with grace. 
Thru him the grave-eyed Florentine finds place 

Among us; but across Acadian fields 

Who is it moves with rapt and pensive face? 

Evangeline — to all thy love appeals! 



LOWELL 

Poet, who bore thy crown of seventy years 

As greenly as the chaplet of thy bays, — 

Who from thy throne of thought o'er-looked the maze 
Of human life, high lifting midst thy peers 
Heaven-lighted minstrel brows, — no envious shears 

Of fate may clip thy laurels, but thy lays, 

Brightened by Fame, bloom thru thy winter's days, 
Sunned in our smiles and watered with our tears. 

Not to the craftsman merely, nor the calm, 
Keen-sighted critic, nor the patriot stirred 

With passion, do our grateful hearts belong — 
But to the new Crusader with his palm 

And cross of valiant service, viewed and heard 
Through the long, vow-knit vigil of his song. 






A GARLAND OF SONNETS 351 

WHITTIER 

The call was Freedom's loudest — 'neat that blast 
Down crashed the walls of Slavery's Jericho! 
(Beware, ye proud, the righting Quaker's blow, 

When once he strikes ye well may stand aghast!) 

Now all those storms are far forspent and past, 
Thy martial trumpet long attuned to peace, 
While still to bring the courts of Heaven increase, 

Those olive blooms of song abroad are cast. 

O, strong and faithful watchman — may this state 
In memory long that lifted warning keep! 

Thy strenuous voice hath given us bonds to fate; 
We dread no harm while we that blessing reap ; 

Old age, 'twas never thine — a warm, sedate, 
A mellow sunset brooded o'er thy sleep! 



WHITMAN 

In him, time-balanced mind and cosmic heart 

With common human speech were reconciled. 

Heed not the jargon tongue, the phrase defiled, 
The roughened hand, ignoring forms of art. 
Nay, from his breast what yearning sighs depart ! 

Hark how those vibrant tones grow pure and mild! 

While with the freeborn heart-beat of the Child 
His Earth-song rises and the echoes start. 

What sentient wind makes answer? 'Tis thy breath 
Borne round these shores, O Queen Democracy! 
He stands thy spokesman, thy new prophet, he; 

He leads those souls whose faith o'ermasters death ; 

She triumphs still! whate'er the Preacher saith, 
The horn of Odin blows and men are free! 



352 A GARLAND OF SONNETS 



MORRIS 

Chaucer and Spenser, gather him to your heart, 

That burly Radical of dreamy rhyme! 

And crown him with the Trouvere's bay sublime, 
That ne'er till now had graced the British mart; 
Tho late, for him the story-teller's art 

Came glamorous out of Fancy's buoyant clime, 

The mintage of the golden ore that Time 
Draws from world childhood ; for he voiced in part 

Your mid-sea swaying melodies, the breath 
Of pastoral lands, of flowery meads, and meres, 

And your pale, poignant picturing of death, 
And your dear, tender ruth for love in tears. 

No idle singer, he, whate'er he saith; 
His pilgrim torch relumes the shadowed years! 



KIPLING 

The East hath reared her Viking! lo, he comes 
Laurelled with victory to the purpled West, 
Voicing the proud, vexed century's unrest, 

With fifes, harps, sackbuts, psalteries, and drums. 

His galley, pitched with rare and odorous gums, 
Floats far the Dragon o'er the billow's crest; 
Neath bellying sail his round world keel is pressed ; 

The Empire trade-wind through its cordage hums. 

No vassal laureate he! he wears the crown 
Of English hearts, the roses never sere; 

The rooted loves that bloom in bold renown; 
Those sheaves of promise ripening in the ear, 

The pledge of birthright nations! 'gainst the frown 
Of Fate herself, stands England's faith writ clear! 



A GARLAND OF SONNETS 353 

MISTRAL 

O fair Provence, thou lang 1 of corn and wine! 

Provence, thou brave, sweet home of Love and Song! 

In arts, in arms, in princely feeling strong, 
Once more the dream of Poesy is thine! 
Thine is the latest Troubadour whose line 

From Ronsard runs in honor; of that throng 

King gleeman, who still wind their pipes along 
From towered Avignon to Camargue's blue brine. 

Mireio, of Death the dearest bride, 

Thy love and grief for aye, for aye are sung! 

The Homer of his cherished vineyard side, 
His heart e'er tender, bountiful, and young, 

Swells bold with song, with more than Roman pride — 
The brave Horatius of his native tongue! 



L'EXVOI 

Go forth, my little book, my child of Song! 

My chiefest solace all these years along. 

I've writ thee with small thought of praise or pelf, 

I've writ thee studiously to please myself; 

I've writ thee lovingly; but, comrade, now 

Godspeed! my true interpreter be thou. 



